THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


VERSES 


BY 


GEORGE    O.    HOLBROOKE 


BROADWAY  PUBLISHING  CO. 
835  BROADWAY,  MANHATTAN 


Copyright,    1905, 


GEORGE   0.    HOLBROOKE. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


847 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Monday  Morning    1 

Pulvis  et  Umbra    2 

Leyden     4 

Dabunt  Malum    6 

Their   Appointed   Time    7 

Trinity  Chimes    8 

Asphalt    9 

The    Cataloguer     11 

Trinity  Church    13 

Scandinavian   Gospel    14 

Torre  Quemada    (The  Burnt  Tower) 15 

St.  Patrick's  Day   15 

Ivan  the  Terrible    16 

Brooklyn    Bridge    18 

Islam   19 

The  Cathedral  of  Peter  and   Paul 20 

Raking  the  Leaves    22 

Royal    Wine     22 

Grape  Gathering   24 

Mainz     25 

PeTe  La  Chaise    26 

I  Piombi    27 

Bielo  Ozero 28 

Cheap     29 

The    Whip-Saw    29 

Silence    31 

"A    Virtuous    Woman" 33 

Antwerp    34 

Dusty   35 

The  Laws  of  the  Game 37 

St.  Malo    39 


IT  CONTENTS. 

PAOE 

The  White  Plume   40 

The  Shell  Koad  .- 42 

Psyche    45 

Pilate    40 

Indian  Summer   48 

"T&  din?  anfr^p1'. 50 

The  Brain  54 

Sleep   Song    55 

Where  ? 57 

Santa  Lucia   58 

Louis  Quinze    59 

Ranz  des  Vaches   60 

The  Name  of  the  Tune 61 

Portage    62 

Garlands    63 

Rest    64 

Voices  of  the  Nii-'ht 65 

Central   Park 66 

The  Bowery    68 

The  Breeze    69 

Fistula  Americana    71 

Sleep  and  Death    72 

The  Song  of  the  Saw   72 

Fortune's  Wheel    73 

An  Evening  Party 75 

The   Corn    77 

The   Clinic    79 

The  Eve  of  Salamis 81 

The  Pillar  of  Fire    85 

The  Old  School  Days  87 

Western   Athens    8!) 

Perfume   91 

Michael  Angelo    93 

Hotel  Dieu    95 

Allegro    Ma    Xon    Troppo     96 

Yankee  Doodle   99 

The  Symphony  Concert   100 

The  River    102 

Gazel   of   Hafiz    103 

Poplar  Down    104 

Lafayette   105 

Antigone  and  Ismene  108 


CONTENTS.  v 

PAGE 

Ferns    110 

Queenstown     112 

The   Haunted   Castle    113 

Cold    Storage    115 

O   Fons   Bandusle    117 

The  Fire    117 

The    Bath    119 

The  Music  Box    , 121 

M.  M.  H 127 

E.   M.    0 127 

J.    M.    R 128 

H.  B 128 

All  Saints   129 

S'heshrquin    129 

Sunt   Lacrymae  Kerum 131 

Webster    13,3 

Treasure  of  the  Xiglit    135 

Tsarskoe  Selo 130 

Breeze   and   Calm    137 

Isaac   Marshall    139 

Abner  Crafts    .141 


MONDAY  MORNING. 

morning  sun  is  shining  along  the  gilded 
street, 

The  pavement  is  reechoing  a  thousand  busy  feet; 
And  not  a  sorrow  lingers  where  shadows  gather 

brown, 

For  all  the  boys  and  girls  who  work  are  coming 
into  town. 

The  office-buildings  shoulder  out  the  houses,  in  the 

row 
Where  Knickerbockers  lived  in  peace  some  eighty 

years  ago; 
With  tier  on  tier  of  eager  life  they  surge  on  either 

hand, 
:  And  piles  of  boxes  block  the  way  where  coaches 

used  to  stand. 

There,  where  a  house  is  coming  down,  you  still 

can  see  the  trace 
Of  all  the  rooms  and  parlors  that  used  to  fill  the 

place — 
'Twas  here  the  parson  blessed  the  pair,  and  there 

a  mother  cried, 
And  there  the  sister  knelt  in  prayer  beside  the 

saint  who  died. 


2  VERSES. 

A  pile  of  granite  palaces  is  rising  in  their  stead, 
And  all  the  eyes  that  used  to  shine  are  numbered 

with  the  dead. 
The  city's  stream   of  myriad  life  pours  on  with 

tragic  flow, 
And  brings  new  hearts  and  souls  instead  of  those 

we  used  to  know. 

But  in  the  east  St.  Saviour's  stands,  and  lifts  its 

hand  on  high, 
And  casts  upon  the  sweeping  crowd  a  blessing  from 

the  sky — 
A    patriarchal    blessing,    though    office-buildings 

frown, 
For  all  the  girls  and  boys  who  work  are  coming 

into  town. 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA. 

We  met  before  the  tenement; 

A  gleam  was  on  her  lashes, 
And  down  the  street  the  breezes  sent 

The  gleaning  of  our  ashes. 

I  see  her  still — the  stately  form, 
The  bit  of  faded  shawl; 

Behind  her  rose  the  gathering  storm 
And  shook  its  threatening  pall. 

A  marble  brow,  dilated  eyes 

Of  clear  celestial  blue, 
As  when  the  rainbow  orbs  the  skies 

With  depths  of  heavenly  dew. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

I  know  the  wolf  of  gaunt  despair, 
The  sullen  stare  of  shame, 

The  glint  of  hate,  the  glaze  of  care, 
And  woes  that  have  no  name; 

I  know  the  violets  that  dye 

The  love-lorn  maiden's  cheeks — • 

But,  oh,  the  power  of  the  eye 

That  wakes  through  weary  weeks. 

I  saw  the  stranger,  clearer  light, 
And  knew  that  he  was  dead: 

"About  the  turning  of  the  night, 
And  all  alone,"  she  said. 

We  sought  again  the  naked  stair, 

Each  with  an  empty  hod, 
And  felt  a  presence  with  us  there, 

A  messenger  of  God. 

Oh.  harvests  of  forsaken  lives, 

Ghosts  of  forgotten  fires : 
Faith  in  the  infinite  survives 

Where  bleeding  hope  expires. 

Blow,  winter  winds,  to  cool  that  soul, 
And  heal  the  reddened  gashes: 

Powers  of  eternity  control 
The  fate  of  dust  and  ashes. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  . 


LEYDEN. 

The  towers  of  Leyden  rise 

Against  the  lurid  skies 
Like  a  company  of  melancholy  ghosts, 

And  the  cursed  Spanish  heel 

Has  drawn  its  line  of  steel 
Around  them,  with  its  banners  and  its  hosts. 

Every  citizen  you  meet 

On  the  bleak,  deserted  street 
Is  so  hungerbit,  it's  pitiful  to  tell; 

And  the  women  there,  who  cower 

In  each  cellar  and  each  tower, 
Dread  the  Spanish  as  they  dread  the  beasts  of  hell. 

Every  watchman  there,  who  calls 

To  his  fellow,  on  the  walls, 
Has  a  voice  that  sounds  like  funeral  bells  that  ring; 

For  the  dragon  coiled  below 

Is  a  very  cunning  foe, 
And  is  setting  all  his  talons  for  a  spring. 

Every  foot  of  Holland  soil 

Has  been  reddened  by  the  toil 
Of  the  heading-axe  that  hacks  its  holy  sod; 

Every  foot  is  black  with  coals 

That  have  sent  the  tortured  souls 
A-shrieking  from  the  fire  up  to  God. 

The  only  Dutchmen  now 
Are  the  men  who  man  the  bow 
Of  the  ships  that  come  a-floating  on  the  tide; 


VERSES.  6 

And  every  dyke  that  breaks 
Is  the  spring  the  lover  makes, 
As  he  leaps  across  the  fire  to  his  bride. 

But  every  dyke  is  lined 

By  the  hosts  they  have  combined 

With  the  gold  that's  sweated  out  of  Cuban  slaves; 

The  martial  Genoeses 
/  And  the  bitter  Portugueses, 

Who  are  beating  back  the  ocean  and  its  waves. 

They've  a  long  account  to  square 

With  the  herring-boaters  there, 
The  fisher  laddies,  hungry  and  forlorn 

The  people  from  the  isles 

Where  nature  never  smile?, 
And  where  they  talk  of  Egmont  and  of  Horn. 

There  are  men  from  western  Flanders, 

And  a  fleet  of  the  Ostranders, 
And  the  Frieslanders  are  tacking  down  the  shore; 

There  are  Sturtevanters  there, 

To  steer  the  wind,  I  swear, 
There  are  Roosevelts  and  Stuyvesants  galore. 

There'll  be  a  storm,  to-night, 

That  will  make  the  surges  white, 
And  there  never  is  a  dyke  that  will  abide; 

For  the  gulls  are  flying  low, 

In  the  faces  of  the  foe, 
And  God  Almighty's  stirring  up  the  tide. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  . 


DABUNT  MALUM. 

"Very  clever,  so  they  say, 
Very  bright  and  very  clever; 

Poet  Naevius'  latest  lay 
Kings  as  lustily  as  ever. 

"Verses  flashing  down  the  street, 
Clinking  in  the  plashing  fountain 

Where  the  charcoal-sellers  meet, 
Coming  from  the  Sabine  mountain. 

"All  the  baker's  boys  repeat  them, 
And  the  lentil-seller's  daughter 

Lifts  her  pretty  hands  and  beats  them 
Chanting,  as  she  draws  the  water. 

"Brightly  flitting,  off  they  fly, 
Like  the  idle  winter's  swallows, 

Seeking  the  Surrentine  skies 
Over  the  Campagna's  fallows." 


"Mischief-making,  bitter  words, 
Idly  railing  at  his  betters, 

Cutting  sharp  like  whetted  swords, 
Clanking  shrill  like  brazen  fetters, 

"Mocking  at  our  ancient  fame, 
Waxen  masks  and  annals  hoary. 

Will  he  seek  to  dim  the  name 
Of  the  clan  in  Roman  story? 


VERSES. 

"Weary,  wandering,  far  away, 
Empty  pouch  and  empty  belly, 

We  shall  hear  what  he  will  say, 
When  he  thinks  of  the  Metelli. 

"Metaphors  return  to  roost, 
Haunting  like  forgotten  curses. 

We  shall  hear  old  Naevius  boast, 
When  he  reads  Metellic  verses. 


THEIR  APPOINTED  TIME. 

Lengthening  still,  the  arms  of  night 
Fold  around  our  northern  world; 

Summer's  radiant  robe  of  light 
To  the  southern  pole  is  whirled. 

Keener  raptures  fill  the  air, 

Anthems  through  the  forest  peal; 

Heaven's  archers  now  prepare. 
Swifter  shafts  of  bluer  steel. 

Seek,  0  birds,  a  milder  clime; 

Seek  your  bowers  of  winter  bliss; 
Swift  the  changeful  summer-time 

On  revolving  globes  like  this. 

Some  of  you  can  still  remember 
Crystal  joys  as  keen  as  these, 

When  the  pulses  of  September 

Thrilled  the  sobbing  chestnut-trees; 


VERSES. 

And  a  clearer  voice  than  reason 
Fills  each  eager  callow  breast : 

"Rise,  and  greet  the  appointed  season; 
Rise ;  this  world  is  not  your  rest. 

"Rise  upon  the  ether's  surges, 

While  the  shortening  sunbeams  smile; 
Nature's  mildest  mandate  urges, 

Seek  the  blooming  tropic  isle." 


TRINITY  CHIMES. 

Old  Trinity  was  striking  one, 
And  darkness  ruled  the  street 

Which  flashes  in  the  morning  sun, 
When  man  and  mammon  meet. 

The  office-buildings  soared  on  high, 

The  shadows  slept  below, 
Save  where  the  strip  of  star-lit  sky 

Watched  the  electric  glow. 

A  lonely  figure  wandered  there 
And  knocked  at  every  door. 

Still  turning,  with  a  fruitless  care, 
Each  corner  to  explore. 

A  puzzled  eye,  a  flushing  cheek, 

A  doublet — yes,  in  sooth, 
'Twas  Knickerbocker,  come  to  seek 

The  comrades  of  his  vouth. 


VERSES. 

And  strange  Dutch  words  and  gestures  told 

The  depth  of  his  despair. 
"Where  is  the  wijnkoep,  where  they  sold 

The  draughts  of  Rhenish  rare? 

"Where  is  the  stoep  of  Rip  van  Dam, 

Where  cronies  met  together, 
To  hear  the  news  from  Amsterdam 

And  ask  the  price  of  leather? 

"The  wall  is  gone,  the  Indians  fled, 

The  fort  has  passed  away. 
Are  Hendrick,  Jans  and  Joris  dead? 

Their  children — where  are  they?" 

And  up  he  looked,  and  then  looked  down: — 
"The  Kat'skills  have  moved  into  townl" 


ASPHALT. 

The  smoke  of  seething  asphalt  is  on  the  street 

to-day, 

As  if  a  new  Gomorrah  were  blazing  on  Broadway, 
And  sooty  forms,  like  demons,  with  blazing  irons 

stalk, 
To  make  the  roadway  smoother  for  women's  feet  to 

walk. 

The  smoke  of  burning  grasses  is  on  the  Asian  plain, 
But  behind  it  come  the  wagon-tops  of  all  the  Aryan 
train ; 


10  VERSES. 

In  front  the  thorn-bush  crackles  and  the  thistle's 
flag  is  furled, 

But  behind  it  spread  the  pastures  that  feed  a  hun 
gry  world. 

The  fagots  on  the  Plaza  have  been  sweetened  up 

with  oil, 
For  blessed  Torquemada  has  got  some  Jews  to 

broil. 
There   are   thousands   more  to   follow,   while   the 

southern  heavens  smile, 
To  wear  the  robe  of  torture  and  to  climb  the  bitter 

pile. 

But  there's  pitch  and  tar  in  Cadiz  that  will  burn 

with  louder  roar 
When  England  fires  the  signal  and  Drake  comes 

down  the  shore; 
There  are  bolts  in  heaven's  arsenal  and  blasts  upon 

the  seas 
To  drive  the  great  armada  beyond  the  Hebrides. 

The  stakes  are  set  by  Balliol  and  crowds  block  up 

the  road, 
For  Latimer  and  Ridley  shall  burn,  to-day,   for 

God, 
And  all  of  Oxford's  bells  must  toll,  and  all  the 

organs  ring, 
To   tell   the   prudent   righteousness  of   England's 

Spanish  king. 

But  a  beacon  lias  been  lighted,  and  a  whirlwind  is 
begun, 

That  will  bear  the  spark  of  British  thought  be 
yond  the  setting  sun ; 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  11 

For  all  the  darkness  of  men's  hearts  and  all  that 

they  desire, 
Must  be  tested  by  the  furnace  and  be  salted  by  the 

fire. 

There  are  flames  that  scorch  and  blacken,  there  are 

flames  that  guide  and  bless, 
The  pillar  leads  the  Hebrew  host  through  all  the 

wilderness, 
And  Gideon's  smoking  torches,  in  earthen  vessels 

stored, 
Shall  flash  upon  the  midnight  sky  the  glory  of  the 

Lord. 


THE  CATALOGUER. 

Poor  pen — your  life's  short  race  is  run 

As  far  as  I  can  task  it; 
In  recompense  for  service  done 

I'll  throw  you  in  the  basket. 

Good  pen — at  first  you  were  a  queen- 
As  tough,  and  bright,  and  limber 

As  rushes  green-,  and  sweet  sixteen, 
And  ten-year  hickory  timber. 

You  waded  through  the  weary  mire 

Of  longest  pagination; 
Imprint  and  foot-note  could  not  tire 

Your  personal  equation. 


12  VERSES. 

You  took  to  Greek,  and  would  not  squeak 

At  Swedish,  Dutch  or  Latin, 
But  made  the  title-pages  speak 

In  words  as  soft  as  satin. 

Ink,  black  and  blue!  the  same  to  you. 

Whate'er  my  hand  was  seeking, 
Until  you  tried  the  copying  brew, 

And  then  you  took  to  creaking. 

You'll  meet  the  end  good  pens  desire 

Beyond  this  room's  disaster, 
And,  purged  by  a  renewing  fire, 

May  find  a  better  master. 

Poor  body — you  were  lissome,  too, 

So  merry  and  so  willing, 
You'd  play  and  frisk,  as  young  folks  do, 

Although  the  pace  was  killing. 

But  now  the  prison  of  rheumatism 
Has  stopped  your  sport  and  caper, 

And  tired  eyes  must  have  a  prism 
To  see  the  print  on  paper. 

Soon  you'll  be  pressed  on  earth's  soft  breast, 

And,  if  it's  fair  to  ask  it, 
I  hope  you'll  find  a  quiet  rest 

Beyond  earth's  emptied  basket. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  13 


TRINITY  CHURCH. 

Some  one  threw  telegraphic  waste 

From  windows  in  the  night, 
And  Trinity's  grave  elms  were  laced, 

Next  day,  with  strips  of  white. 

Each  sparrow  took  its  shares  of  stocks 

To  line  a  downy  nest, 
Love  messages,  like  fairies'  locks, 

Fell  on  each  dead  man's  breast. 

The  church  bore  tidings  to  the  town 

Upon  its  fingers  taper, 
And  old  John  Watts's  metal  gown 

Bloomed  out  afresh  in  paper. 

But  where's  the  rest?    What  tide  of  space 
Has  borne  the  grave,  the  tender, 

The  hopeful  thoughts  which  lightnings  trace 
To  speed  them  for  the  sender? 

Toll  out,  great  chimes  of  deathless  doom, 

Above  the  Sunday  street, 
For  human  prayer  there  still  is  room, 

Where  man  and  heaven  meet. 

Though  many  a  faint,  despairing  thought 

Upon  the  tombstones  lie, 
The  rest  by  airy  hands  are  caught, 

And  wafted  to  the  sky. 


14  VERSES. 

SCANDINAVIAN  GOSPEL. 

The  old  Norwegians  wondered  how 

The  pillars  of  the  earth  could  bow; 

They  asked  what  tides  through  heaven  run ; 

What  spell  commands  the  midnight  sun; 

And  so  they  told  how  Thor  went  out 

To  spy  the  universe  about. 

He  left  the  land  of  sun  and  flowers, 

And,  armed  with  his  creative  powers, 

He  took  the  hammer  in  his  hand, 

And  wandered  into  Chaos  land. 

He  found  what  giant  forms  there  are, 

Whose  roof -tree  is  the  polar  star; 

He  felt  fierce  Hecla's  scathing  breath; 

Like  men  he  felt  the  hug  of  death ; 

When  Outer-Darkness  showed  its  eyes, 

He  gripped  the  monster  like  a  vise. 

Then   the  great  orbing  planet   swerved, 

The  whole  ecliptic  bent  and  curved, 

The  frozen  hosts  of  horror  fled, 

And  midnight  hid  its  vanquished  head. 

Men's  heroes,  with  the  spoils  they've  won, 

Newton,  and  Watt,  and  Edison 

Have  lion  hearts  and  eye  of  lynx, 

To  conquer  nature's  subtle  sphinx, 

And    force   tin-   powers    of   earth   to   give 

The  bread  and  hope  by  which  we  live. 

Plain,  common  men,  like  you  and  me, 

Have  something  still  to  do  and  see. 

We'll  love  our  work,  and  rest,  and  play; 

We'll  face  the  sunrise  day  by  day, 

And  when  we've  drained  earth's  mingled  cup, 

We'll  take  the  midgard  serpent  up. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  15 

TORRE  QUEMADA. 
(The  Burnt  Tower.) 

See  the  Moorish  torches  leap! 

Hear  the  shrieking  ladies'  bower  1 
Spanish  curses,  fierce  and  deep, 

Echo  from  the  burning  tower. 

Long  the  blackened  ruin  stood, 
Name  and  emblem  of  a  race — 

Torquemada,  word  of  blood, 
Branded  on  a  nation's  face. 

Heritage  of  deathless  hate. 

Fierce  revenge,  religious  strife, 
Worm  that  gnawed  Castilian  state 

At  the  heart  of  Spanish  life. 

Let  no  watchword  such  as  this, 

No  such  memories  be  ours; 
May  the  dews  of  heaven  kiss 

Mosses  on  our  ruined  towers. 


ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY. 

True  to  the  heart  of  the  saint  who  had  tasted 

Bitterest  dregs  in  the  cup  of  the  slave ; 
Following  fast  in  his  steps  as  he  hasted, 

Seeking  the  perishing  over  the  wave; 
Sons  of   St.   Patrick,  a  glorious  nation, 

Winning  their  heritage  under  the  sun, 
Bear  in  their  bosom  the  hope  of  creation, 

Bear  on  their  banner  the  cross  that  he  won; 


16  VERSES. 

Fighting  the  battles  of  freedom  and  honor, 
Building  the  railroad  and  sailing  the  ship, 

True  to  old  Ireland,  blessings  upon  her! 
A  glint  in  the  eye  and  a  song  on  the  lip. 

Sarsfit'Ms  still  true  to  the  lilies  that  shield  them, 

Sheridans  bearing  the  stars  of  the  west, 
Sabres  that  flash  in  the  hands  that  can  wield  them, 

Hearts  of  the  lightest  and  souls  of  the  best. 
Hark !  it's  the  voice  of  sweet  Goldsmith  that's  sing 
ing; 

Hark !  it's  the  magic  Moore's  melody  flings ; 
Hark !  it's  the  voice  of  a  Burke  that  is  ringing — 

Prophets  of  righteousness,  liberty's  kings. 
Hail  to  the  sons  of  the  saint  who  still  guides  them, 

Seeking  the  triumph  of  Christendom's  right ! 
Here  in  the  west  a  new  Erin  abides  them, 

Crowning  the  earth  with  its  kingdom  of  light. 


IVAX  THE  TERRIBLE. 

The  frozen  sky  is  cobalt-blue, 

The  clouds  float  sadly  off, 
The  Moscow  men  stand,  grim  and  gray, 

Before  the  towers  of  Pskoff, 
And  Ivan  bites  his  withered  lip — 

To-day  shall  surely  bring 
The  eagle  of  his  fell  revenge, 

With  blood  upon  its  wing. 
"Xo  quarter"  is  the  given  word; 

In  this  fraternal  strife 
Whoever  saves  a  soul  in  Pskoff 

Shall  surely  lose  his  life, 


VERSES.  17 

A  black  cowl  towers  above  the  crowd, 

The  household  troops  bow  low 
To  Nicholas,  the  hermit  monk, 

Who  never  feared  a  foe; 
Unshod  he  treads  the  cutting  ice, 

Nor  feeds  on  mortal  fare — 
The  fiercest  saint  who  trusts  his  God, 

And  breathes  the  Russian  air. 
"Hail,  father,  hail !"   "All  hail,  my  liege ! 

Hail,  comrades  from  the  east! 
I  bring  my  blessing  to  your  board, 

My  tribute  to  your  feast." 
"What,  father,  flesh?     Raw,  bleeding  flesh? 

What !  flesh  in  holy  Lent  ? 
Such  food  shall  never  pass  my  lips, 

Pollute  my  royal  tent !" 
"Meet  meat  for  thee,  thou  devil's  son ! 

Let  kings  remember  well 
That  he  who  eats  the  hearts  of  men 

Shall  keep  his  Lent  in  hell." 
The  monarch's  beard  falls  on  his  breast, 

The  monarch's  brow  bends  low — 
He  sees  the  site  of  Novgorod 

A  waste  of  trackless  snow. 
He  sees  the  tortured,  stiffened  forms, 

That  in  the  snow-drifts  rest — 
The  mother  by  her  blackened  hearth, 

The  baby  at  her  breast ; 
And  ghosts  of  horrors  yet  to  be 

Before  his  conscience  run, 
He  sees  his  blood-stained  staff  of  steel 

That  slays  his  only  son. 
The  boyars  clutch  their  heavy  swords, 

And  watch,  with  bated  breath, 


18  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

The  sweat  upon  that  wrinkled  brow 

Doomed  to  an  evil  death. 
The   monarch's   word   sounds   hoarse   and   low, 

The  roofs  of  Pskoff  are  free; 
The  tidings  sweep  across  the  land, 

They  greet  the  frozen  sea ; 
And  still,  in  huts  of  blackened  fir 

Beneath  the  polar  star, 
Men  praise  the  mighty  monk  of  old 

Who  tamed  the  awful  Czar. 


BROOKLYN"  BEIDGE. 

Like  flashing  eyes  the  torches  glow, 
Where  land  and  water  meet, 

And  lamps  in  bright  procession  flow 
Through  each  untrodden  street. 

Shadows  of  pinnacle  and  tower 
Fall  where  the  city  broods, 

Alley   and   sullen    courtyard   cower, 
Like  dells  in  deepest  woods. 

The  sea  of  roofs  extends,  the  same, 

O'er  many  a  happy  home, 
O'er  dens  of  shame  that  bear  no  name 

And  halls  where  angels  roam. 

Tn  silence  far,  each  white-robed  star 

Its  deathless  vigil  keeps. 
And  spirits  bear  to  heaven's  bar 

The  harvest  heaven  reaps, 


VERSES.  19 

Is  it  a  rose  that  stains  the  sky, 

Or  a  dying  sinners  blood? 
The  swift  reply  to  earth's  keen  cry, 

Or  the  day-spring's  healing  flood? 

The  incense  of  the  mist-cloud  soars 

To  meet  the  quickening  ray ; 
The  world's  dark  soul  bows  and  adores, 

And  waits  the  perfect  day. 


ISLAM. 

See  the  mighty  Haj  proceeding 
From  the  fair  Damascus  gate, 

With  the  Pasha's  camel  leading — • 
"Allah  akbar !  God  is  great  I" 

Past  each  palm  and  fairy  garden, 
Past  the  mosque's  protecting  walls, 

Where  the  note  of  heaven's  pardon 
In  the  muezzin's  summons  falls. 

"Lebanon  is  far  above  us, 

Eobed  in  folds  of  virgin  snow; 

God  is  near  to  help  and  love  us, 
Guide,  protect  us  as  we  go. 

"Southward  far  the  prophet  calls  us, 
Here  our  loved  ones  pray  and  wait; 

Life,  nor  death,  nor  hell  appals  us; 
Allah  akbar  I  God  is  great  I" 


20  VERSES. 

— Still  the  great  procession's  wending, 

Underneath  a  crystal  - 
North  and  south  are  sands  unending, 

Fire  on  earth  and  fire  on  high. 

"Let  him  rest  where  he  is  sleeping, 
Where  no  giaour's  foot  has  trod, 

In  the  desert's  holy  keeping; 
He  has  made  his  Peace  with  God. 

"Xot  a  jackal  to  molest  him, 

Xot  a  vulture  in  the  sky; 
In  his  sacred  robe  invest  him, 

Thus  may  each  believer  die. 

"Here  the  choir  of  angels  calms  him, 
Chanting  their  eternal  lay: 

Here  the  wild  simoon  embalms  him, 
Drifting  till  the  Judgment  Day. 

"Onward  still  the  Prophet  calls  us, 
Bearing  each  his  solemn  fate; 

Life,  nor  death,  nor  hell  appals  us; 
Allah  akbar!    God  is  great!" 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  PETER  AXD  PAUL. 

Fair   Nature  chose  her  brightest  hour, 

Her  clearest  sight,  serenest  power, 

The  noblest  Russian  blood  that  ran — 

Wrought  them,  and  said :  "Behold,  a  man !" 

Xo  age  nor  ages  could  repeat  her 

Great  "work.    Men  claimed  their  king  in  Fetor, 


VERSES.  21 

of    Asian    darkness    fled 
At  his  command;  swift,  swifter  sped 
The  hands  of  Time's  resounding  clock, 
Freed  from  the  brazen  clogs  that  mock 
Our  human  efforts;  like  a  dream 
Bright  Science  rose  by  Neva's  stream, 
While,  with  his  mighty  fingers,  he 
Traced  realms  and  worlds  that  were  to  be. 

— A  mother's  tragic  will  behind 
A  father's  narrow,  darkened  mind. 
Earth  paused  in  all  its  toil  to  ask: 
"What  is  this  ghastly,  bodeful  mask?" 
Phantoms   of   grim    disaster    dance 
Beside  his  path,  and  at  his  glance 
Wife,  children  shudder;  subjects  fall 
In  abject  terror.     Such  was  Paul. 
At  last  the  world  rebelled;  a  blow 
From  desperate  vassals  laid  him  low. 

He  sleeps  beside  fhe  flooding  river, 
Where  frozen  ages  wait  and  shiver, 
Beneath  the  heaven-piercing  spire, 
With   murdress   mother,  murdered   sire. 
Petropaulovsk !  the  chosen   fane 
Of  Time's  hereditary  reign, 
At  whose  command  and  with  whose  sigh, 
The  strongest,  weakest,  live  and  die. 
Rise,  holy  Russia !  with  thy  view, 
Cleared  by  sweet  tears  of  heaven's  dew; 
Place  human  conscience,  reason,  fate, 
On  mighty  Peter's  throne  of  state. 


23  VERSES. 

RAKING  THE  LEAVES. 

The  leaves  are  falling  from  the  trees, 

Dead  as  forgotten  sins, 
And  still,  to  sound  of  autumn  breeze, 

Sweet  Nature  sings  and  spins. 

She  spins  the  thread  unchanging 
That  saddened  memory  weaves, 

While  the  sun's  bright  shuttle,  ranging, 
Wakens  Australian  leaves.  • 

The  tenderest  hopes  that  met  the  dawn 
Where  April's  shadows  lay, 

The  gems  of  light  that  lit  the  lawn 
Beneath  the  eye  of  May, 

The  brooding  love  of  summer  bowers 
That  watched  the  ripening  fruit 

Are  mingled  in  the  russet  showers, 
Beside  the  ancient  root. 

Yet  Nature  fills  her  deathless  bowl, 
Nor  e'er,  despairing,  grieves, 

And  unborn  summers  cheer  the  soul 
Of  those  who  rake  the  leaves. 


ROYAL  WINE. 

Charles  the  Fifth  has  sailed  from  Cadiz 

Over  the  Atlantic  tide, 
Noble  knights  and  lovely  ladies 

Besting  at  his  gracious  side. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  23 

Castanets  and  lute  Castilian 

Teach  the  notes  that  lovers  learn, 

While  the  blue  and  gold  pavillion 
Flutters  on  the  lofty  stern. 

See!  the  monarch's  eyes  have  rested 

On  the  hideous  forward  bench 
Where  the  slaves,  in  toil  detested, 

Row  in  the  eternal  stench. 

Never  kindly  face  to  see  them 

Underneath  that  brazen  sky, 
Only  death  and  hell  to  free  them, 

Sharks  to  eat  them  when  they  die. 

Stripped  and  shaven,  tanned  and  branded, 
Starting  eyes  that  stare  and  shine — 

"Give  them,"  so  the  king  commanded, 
"Royal  draughts  of  royal  wine  I" 

Golden  wine  in  golden  beakers 

Flows  to  cheer  the  demon  crew; 
Wine,  at  last,  has  made  them  speakers, 

How  they  shout,  Great  Charles,  for  you! 

On  the  shores  by  legend  haunted, 

On  the  Andalusian  waves, 
Mariners  for  ages  chanted 

How  the  emperor  treated  slaves. 

Toilers  in  the  modern  city, 

Sweat-shop  toilers,  stripped  and  peeled, 
Find  no  cup  of  earthly  pity, 

Find  no  draught  that  love  has  healed 


24  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Till  the  sea  sends  up  its  chalice, 
Winds  of  bliss  that  never  tire, 

Fresh  from  Ocean's  beryl  palace, 
Cooling  every  brow  of  fire. 

Sleep  and  comfort,  food  and  pleasure, 
In  the  magic  draught  combine; 

When  the  billows  grant  their  treasure, 
And  the  heaven  pours  out  its  wine. 


GRAPE  GATHERING. 

The  garden  trellis  raises 

Its  vine-clad  hands  on  high, 
With  meed  of  balmy  praises 

For  the  gifts  of  the  summer  sky. 

The  mold  that  shrines  a  million  leaves, 
The  fragrant  breath  of  dawn, 

The  bowers  that  radiant  summer  weaves, 
The  gems  by  autumn  worn, 

The  eye  of  heaven,  serene  and  kind, 

The  sphere's  eternal  shape 
Are  mirrored  in  the  downy  rind 

That  clasps  the  perfect  grape. 

The  burning  lip  of  the  evening  sky, 
This   purple    Concord    kissed 

With  the  starry  sapphire's  gleaming  dye, 
And  the  light  of  the  amethyst. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  25 

Amber  Niagaras  show  the  dew 

The  star  of  morning  brings; 
Catawbas  mock  each  rainbow  hue 

On  the  flying  storm-clouds'  wings. 

Delicious  air,  that  filPst  the  lip 

Of  the  mountains'  violet  bowl, 
The  nectar  that  the  spirits  sip, 

The  world's  transparent  soul — 

Still  make  our  hearts  rejoice  and  shine, 

When  winter's  winds  are  drear, 
And  let  the  glow  of  Nature's  wine 

Live  on  from  year  to  year. 


MAINZ. 

Against  the  dewy  sky  the  sunset's  fingers 

Array  the  vine-clad  hills  in  darkening  lines. 
A  royal  cloud  of  purple  radiance  lingers 

Above  the  crowning  towers  of  stately  Mainz. 
Calm  is  the  glow,  the  step  of  night  is  steady, 

The  lamps  begin  to  gleam  with  mystic  shine, 
The  might  of  Alpine  snows,  forever  ready, 

Is  flooding  swift  along  the  noble  Rhine. 

The  minster's  chimes,  in  full,  mysterious  numbers, 

Float  o'er  the  city,  from  the  cloisters  wide 
Where  many  a  knight  in  stony  armor  slumbers 

With  hosts  of  great  companions  at  his  side. 
Fair  Nature's  hand  with  freshest  turf  is  dressing 

The  mound  above  their  heads ;  her  tapers  burn 
To  soothe  their  sleep,  until,  with  morning  blessing, 

Her  feathered  choristers  in  peace  return. 


26  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

On  yonder  moorland,  where  the  ash  tree  towers, 

Where  ancient  spirits  sternly,  sadly  roam, 
The  dying  Prusus  summoned  all  his  powers 

To  hail  Tiberius,  speeding  swift  from  Rome. 
Too  late,  too  late,  for  one  to  greet  the  other! 

The  heart- beats  slacken  and  the  pulses  chill, 
But  still  the  memory  of  the  noble  brother 

Rests  dark  and  solemn  on  the  stately  hill. 

Souls  of  the  past,  the  glorious  world  protecting, 

From   distant  ages  on  our  memories  shine, 
The  thoughts  of  love  and  duty  still  reflecting 

On  the  eternal  current  of  the  Rhine. 
Still  shall  our  hearts  dream  of  the  former  glory, 

Still  hail  the  heroes  with  their  deeds  of  gold. 
While  the  great  river  chants  its  solemn  story 

And  hastens  to  the  ocean  as  of  old. 


PiLRE  LA  CHAISE. 

The  summer  sun,  so  loth  to  set, 

Has  lengthened  out  the  best  of  days, 

And  glances  over  La  Roquette 

To  fall  on  peaceful  Pere  La  Chaise. 

The  heart  of  mighty  Paris  broods — 
A  giant,  murmuring  in  his  sleep, 

Still  dreaming  of  these  holy  woods, 
Where  urns  their  marble  vigils  keep — 

God's  great  Westminster  out-of-doors, 
The  hero's  and  the  sage's  tomb, 

Where  every  leaf  its  incense  pours 

Through  long  arcades  of  fragrant  bloom. 


VERSES.  27 

The  ivy  twines  its  garlands  green, 

The  cypress  lifts  its  hands  in  prayer, 

The  myrtle  murmurs  of  Racine, 
The  laurel  whispers  of  Moliere. 

The  echoes  of  a  thousand  Junes 

Ring  over  Gretry's  tuneful  rest, 
And  linnets  keep  their  sweetest  tunes 

To  calm  Rossini's  troubled  breast. 

The  twilight  folds  its  dewy  wings 
And  watches  Hugo's  solemn  cell; 

The  evening  star  exults,  and  sings 
Of  Arago,  who  knew  it  well. 

Then,  when  bright  Hesperus  has  led, 
Zephyr  returns  through  all  the  shades, 

And  mystic  foot-falls  of  the  dead 

Come  rustling  down  the  darkening  glades. 

While  memory  lingers  in  her  shrine, 
I'll  ne'er  forget  that  violet  haze — • 

I'll  see  the  star  of  evening  shine, 
The  sentinel  of  Pere  La  Chaise. 


I  PIOMBI. 

0,  the  heat  of  the  roof!  0,  the  stench  of  the  cage! 
The  blackness,  the  madness,  the  torment,  the  rage ! 
By  day  there  is  horror,  at  night  there  is  dread, 
For  God  never  comes  to  live  under  the  lead. 


28  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

There's  a  crucifix  high  in  the  torture-room  low 
To  mock  every  groan  and  to  count  every  blow, 
There's  a  priest  there  to  spy  every  word  that  is 

said; 
But  God  never  comes  to  live  under  the  lead. 

Outside  there's  the  sun,  and  the  stars,  and  the 

moon, 

And  the  boats  that  ride  free  on  the  distant  lagoon, 
And  the  noondays  are  blue  and  the  evenings  are 

red; 
But  God  never  comes  to  live  under  the  lead. 


BIELO  OZEEO. 

White  fire  on  the  horizon  burns, 

The  forest  glooms  afar, 
The  orbing  world  in  silence  turns 

To  adore  the  Morning  Star. 

He  reins  his  heavenly  steeds  on  high 

Their  eager  thirst  to  slake, 
And  all  the  glory  of  the  sky 

Flames  in  the  peaceful  lake. 

His  flashing  torch,  inverted,  beams 

Upon  the  water's  breast; 
The  lingering  old  moon  sadly  dreams 

And  fills  the  purpling  west. 

Dear  Memory,  cease  thy  sweetest  grief, 

And  teach  us,  from  afar, 
Quickening  beneath  the  dawn's  relief 

To  reflect  the  Morning  Star. 


VERSES,  29 

CHEAP. 

"He's  only  two  and  sixpence,  sir, 

A  rare  good  linnet  for  his  age — 
The  mornings,  I  can  hardly  stir 

Before  he's  piping  in  the  cage. 

"He  only  wants  his  bite  of  seed, 
A  pinch  of  cress,  and  room  to  grow; 

He's  never  pining  to  be  freed, 

Because  he's  blinded,  sir,  you  know." 

Poor  creature !  Milton's  feathered  mate, 

Instinct  with  the  celestial  spark, 
Beguiling  days  of  hopeless  fate 

With  suns  that  shone  before  the  dark. 

Poor  souls !  in  many  a  cheerless  room, 
Toiling  for  that  which  others  waste, 

Cheering  their  comrades  in  the  gloom 
With  dreams  of  joy  they  never  taste. 

Poor  spirits  of  mankind !  who  wait 

Where  gleams  through  starry  windows  flow, 

Nor  beat  their  wings  at  heaven's  gate, 
Because  they're  blinded,  here,  you  know. 


THE  WHIP-SAW. 

Sweet  October's  voice  is  calling, 
Sweet  October's  heart  is  red, 

Gay  October's  leaves  are  falling 
From  the  branches  overhead. 


30  VERSES. 

Where  the  mighty  logs  are  lying 
On  their  couch  of  damasked  gold, 

Cheerily  the  saw  is  flying 
And  the  fate  of  logs  is  told; 

Double  hands  to  call  and  answer, 
Teeth  of  steel  that  bite  and  cry, 

While  the  saw,  a  merry  dancer, 
Flashes  sunbeams  from  the  sky. 

vll%<a,  sagana,  sagen,  sagen,* 
Echoing  words  of  Aryan  law  ! 

Many  an  ancient  churl  and  thegen 
Chanted  sagas  o'er  the  saw  — 

Songs  of  dwarfs  and  elves  beguiling, 
Songs  of  vikings,  heaven  led; 

While  great  Master  Olaf,  smiling, 
Carved  the  fatal  dragon  head. 

Thus,  from  age  to  age,  unheeding, 

Chanting  generations  go, 
While  a  wiser  hand  is  speeding 

Next  year's  sunbeams  through  the  snow. 


*  The  Greek  faa  appears  to  correspond  to  the  Ger 
man  sagen  and  siigen  (to  say,  to  saw),  as  e%&  does 
to  siegen.  The  primitive  idea  of  reciprocal  action  de 
veloped  into  that  of  antiphonal  chants  and  sacred 
formula*  before  the  division  of  the  Indo  Europeans; 
cf.  xa*tjxea>,  saga,  Segen. 


VERSES.  31  . 

SILENCE. 

The  silence  of  the  meadow !  when  the  sun  has  risen 

high 

And  the  clouds  are  floating  languidly  across  a  per 
fect  sky, 
When  the  birds  have  ceased  their  morning  pipe, 

and  the  morning  hreeze  is  still, 
When  no  poplar  whitens  in  the  vale  or  flashes  on 

the  hill, 
When  the  murmur  of  the  mill-wheel  scarce  moves 

the  moody  sense 
And  the  monologue  of  insects  makes  the  silence 

more  intense, 
And  through  your  closing  eyelids  you  see  some 

boys  at  play 
Who  lived — a  hundred  years  ago,  a  thousand  miles 

awray ! 

The  silence  of  the  city !  when  the  window  is  ajar, 
And  the  rattle  of  a  thousand  wheels  sounds  like 

the  sea  afar, 
When  the  organ  man  is  playing  on  such  a  distant 

street 
That  his  tune  becomes  a  melody  that  sirens  might 

repeat, 
And   the  movements  of   a  million  lives   so   close 

around  you  seem 
Like  the  half-forgotten  fancy  of  a  half-forgotten 

dream. 

The  silence  of  the  mountain !  when  the  earth  is 

all  at  rest, 
And  heaven  folds  the  icy  peaks  upon  its  icy  breast, 


32  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

When  the  eagles  circle  far  away  above  the  plains 
below, 

And  the  winter  of  the  ages  sleeps  on  the  perfect 
snow, 

And  there's  not  a  sound  to  tell  you  of  the  great 
world's  restless  pain 

But  the  throbbing  of  old  Adam's  blood  that's  thud 
ding  in  your  brain. 

The  silence  of  the  sick  room  !  when  the  lamp  is 

burning  low, 
And  you  hear  the  ticking  of  the  watch,  and  the 

mice  that  come  and  go, 
And  the  sharp  staccato  breathing  of  the  one  you 

love  the  best, 
And  you  think  it's  growing  easier,  and  brings  the 

needed  rest, 
And  you  grudge  the  creaking  of  a  board,  and  the 

watch-dog's  distant  bay, 
And  you  wish  the  night  were  longer,  and  dread 

the  noisy  day. 

The  silence  of  the  church-yard !  when  the  clock 
has  struck  night's  noon, 

And  the  owls  have  ceased  their  hooting  in  the  full 
ness  of  the  moon, 

And  the  dew  is  beading  on  the  graves  in  drops 
that  glitter  fair, 

And  the  silent  stars  are  setting  in  the  gulfs  of 
crystal  air, 

And  there's  not  an  ear  to  hearken,  and  not  an  eye 
to  see, 

And  the  nearest  hearts  are  those  that  rest  in  the 
world  that  is  to  be. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  33 


"A  VIRTUOUS  WOMAN." 

The  poet's  girls  are  perfect,  and  it  don't  do  to  be 

rash, 
But  the  best  of  all  the  girls  to  me  is  the  lady  who 

takes  the  cash; 
She's  *-good,  and  then  she's  sensible,  her  face  is 

like  the  sun, 
And  she  has  a  thought  for  every  soul  except  for 

number  one. 

She's  firm,  though  she's  good-natured;  she's  wise, 
although  she's  kind; 

The  clerks  must  keep  to  business,  and  the  cash- 
girls  have  to  mind, 

But  when  the  figures  wont  come  out,  as  sometimes 
will  befall, 

They  take  them  up  to  Lizzie,  and  she  sets  them 
right  for  all. 

She  always  keeps  a  level  head,  and  most  so  when 

she's  pressed — 
The  other  girls  will  talk  and  fool,  but  she's  not 

like  the  rest, 
Her  hand  must  hold  the  pencil,  and  it  can't  be 

white  as  snow, 
But  she's  much  like  Solomon's  lady  that  he  praised 

so  long  ago. 

It's  best  of  all  for  Lizzie  when  she  goes  home  at 

night, 
And  the  boys  will  run  from  their  work  and  fun 

to  hail  her  footstep  light: 


34  VERSES. 

It's  "Lizzie !"  here,  and  "Lizzie !"  there,  and,  when 

they  all  have  kissed  her, 
Whoever  has   a  joy   or  care  must  tell   it  to   his 

sister. 

She  isn't  proud,  but   they're  proud  of  her,  and, 

whatever  folks  m-ay  say, 
The  one  is  best  for  whom  the  rest  are  watching 

all  the  day; 
.\nd  when  she  has  children  of  her  own,  and  this 

world  is  growing  cold, 
They'll  rise  and  call  her  blessed,  as  Solomon  did 

of  old. 


ANTWERP. 

As  the  silver  fountain  leaps 

Above  the  myrtle  bower, 
So  the  heart  of  Antwerp  sweeps 

In  the  glory  of  its  tower 
To  meet  the  blessed  sky  that  beckons  fair; 

The  day  spring's  golden  wages 

And  the  tempest's  noble  rages 
Are  the  dower  of  the  daughter  of  the  air. 

When  the  evening  silence  falls 

As  sweet  as  love  divine, 
And  the  muffled  organ  calls. 

And  the  glory  of  the  shrine 
Comes  flashing  out  through  every  jewelled  pane, 

Then  the  emperor's  ancient  bells 

Ring  out  the  note  that  tells 
Of  the  passing  of  earth's  splendors  as  they  wane. 


VERSES.  35 

Every  word  of  rapture  spoken 

In  the  Antwerp  of  the  past, 
The  sobs  of  spirits  broken 

By  joys  too  keen  to  last, 
Have  been  garnered  in  the  treasury  of  love; 

The  dreams  of  saints  and  sages 

And  the  longings  of  the  ages 
Come  pealing  in  an  anthern  from  above. 


Each  quaintly  gabled  street 

Has  its  note  of  long  ago, 
The  roof-trees  must  repeat 

All  the  echoes  that  they  know, 
There's  a   spell  that  rings  from   every   darkened 
door; 

And  the  heart  of  all  the  city 

Beats  with  tenderness  and  pity 
When  the  vesper  music  summons  it  once  more. 

The  heavenly  power  has  bound  you 

With  its  wings,  behind,  before, 
Beneath  you,  and  around  you, 

Like  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Like  the  wind  that  sways  the  forest  in  the  night, 

And  in  vain  you  wander,  seeking 

For  the  awful  voice  that's  speaking, 
For  the  hand  that  clasps  your  spirit  with  its  might. 

Thus,  in  our  earthly  city, 

There  is  breath  of  friend  and  foe, 
Of  the  wise,  the  strong,  the  witty, 

Of  the  ages  as  they  flow, 


36  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Of  the  forces  of  the  desert  and  the  sky ; 
And  we  pass  our  life-time  groping, 
Waiting,  turning,  watching,  hoping 

For  the  voice  that  calls  us  softly  from  on  high. 

There  are  spirits  in  the  air 

Who  are  listening,  and  yearn 
To  answer  back  the  prayer 

Of  the  lonely  hearts  that  burn, 
Of  the  eyes  that  seek  in  vain  to  pierce  the  night; 

And  we  just  can  hear  them  singing 

On  their  way,  as  they  come  winging 
Through  earth's  shadow  from  the  universe  of  light. 


DUSTY. 

The  August  street  was  dusty  and  the  crowd  was 
moving  fast, 

For  the  cloud  that  filled  the  western  sky  had  grown 
too  black  to  last, 

But  just  as  twilight  deepened  there  came  a  quiver 
ing  flash, 

And  all  the  chords  of  Nature's  harp  seemed  burst 
ing  in  the  crash. 

When  the  stormwind  poised  its  surging  wings  and 
the  silver  stars  looked  down 

Silence  and  blackness  held  their  feast  in  the  de 
serted  town ; 

The  very  midnight  held  its  breath,  for  it  feared 
the  stones  would  tell 

The  legends  of  old  Chaos,  which  the  stones  re 
member  well. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  37 

But  where  the  crimson  lamp-light  fell  on  drip 
ping  walks  below 

They  flashed  it  back  as  clouds  of  rain  flash  back 
the  deathless  bow ; 

Each  flagstone  turned  to  jasper,  and  had  a  ruby 
gleam, 

As  if  it  stood  in  bonding  gold  beside  a  crystal 
stream, 

And  tne  dark,  polluted  surface  became  the  radiant 
floor 

Where  feet  of  men  can  walk  in  peace,  and  saints 
have  walked  before. 

When  the  paths  of  life  are  dusty,  and  the  hands 
of  time  move  slow, 

And  the  wheels  are  growing  rusty  with  the  hours 
that  come  and  go, 

There's  a  power  in  the  darkness  to  shed  life's  choic 
est  wine ; 

It  sometimes  takes  a  flush  of  tears  to  make  the 
pavements  shine. 


THE  LAWS  OF  THE  GAME. 

The  pike  in  the  river,  the  hawk  in  the  sky, 
The  moth  that  is  drawn  to  the  flame, 

The  eagle  that  loses  the  glint  of  its  eye, 
Must  die,  by  the  laws  of  the  game. 

In  ocean  and  eyrie,  in  forest  and  wave, 

The  rule  is  forever  the  same, 
The  beast  that  will  live  and  the  beast  that  will  save 

Must  submit  to  the  laws  of  the  game. 


38  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

Though  deep  he  may  dive  and  though  high  he 
may  soar, 

Though  perfect  the  poise  and  the  aim, 
The  moment  recurs,  and  existence  is  o'er 

By  the  laws  of  the  terrible  game. 

And  what  of  the  man  whose  existence  is  free, 

With  treasures  of  reason  and  will, 
Has  he  force  to  encounter,  and  wisdom  to  see, 

And  might  to  surmount  and  fulfil? 

Heredity  dogs  us,  and  blemishes  balk, 

We  err,  and  we  stumble,  and  fail, 
And  tragical  figures  of  destiny  stalk 

In  the  gloom  of  the  terrible  vale. 

Though  wisdom  may  guide  us,  and  friendship  at 
tend, 

Though  fortune  may  favor  the  brave, 
There's  a  power  unseen  has  appointed  the  end 

Of  the  king,  and  the  sage,  and  the  slave. 

There  is  only  one  force  that  is  greater  than  fate, 
One  power  that  inspires  our  breath — 

The  devotion  that  watches  the  home  and  the  state, 
The  love  that  is  stronger  than  death. 

The  joy  of  the  martyr,  the  bliss  of  the  cross, 
The  faith  that  despise?  the  shame, 

The  hope  that  survives  disappointment  and  loss, 
Are  the  prize  of  the  infinite  game. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  39 


ST.    MALO. 

Tides  of  spring  with  power  are  swelling, 
Gray  the  sky,  the  clouds  fly  low, 

Out  upon  the  dawn  are  knelling 
All  the  bells  of  St.  Malo. 

Down  along  the  wharves  a  column 

Of  the  fisher  people  glides, 
Where  the  steamer,  black  and  solemn, 

On  the  flickering  water  rides. 

Stern  they  march  with  movement  steady, 
Prayerful  lips  and  sober  ranks, 

Leaving  blessed  France,  and  ready 
For  Newfoundland's  fatal  banks. 

Youthful  eyes  and  maiden  graces 
Gaze  from  countenance  forlorn ; 

Wrinkled  cares  have  marked  the  faces 
Of  the  mothers,  sorrow-worn. 

Forth  the  pilgrim  host  are  led, 
Seeking  food  across  the  wave, 

Winter  fires  and  right  to  wed. 
Faithful  hands  and  spirits  brave  I 

Long  the  toilful  summer's  hours 

To  the  women  left  behind; 
Land  to  till  with  feeble  powers, 

Fruit  to  garner,  sheaves  to  bind. 


40  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Life's  rewards  are  scant  and  few — 
Flickering  hearth  and  humble  shed, 

Labor  in  the  morning's  dew, 
Breton  cider,  barley  bread ; 

Silent  prayers  in  twilight  muttered, 
Quiet  foot-falls  at  the  shrine, 

Apprehensions,  seldom  uttered, 
When  the  sullen  evenings  shine; 

Practiced  eyes  that  watch  the  dawnings, 
Watch  the  drifting  clouds  in  motion; 

Patient  hearts  that  count  the  mornings, 
Longing  o'er  the  endless  ocean. 

Loftier  than  the  dreams  of  magic 
Lingering  at  the  artist's  gate 

Are  the  souls  serene  and  tragic, 

Doomed  to  silence,  trained  to  wait. 

May  your  gloomy  northern  ocean 
Catch  the  gleam  of  heaven's  bow; 

Pressed  be  your  stern  devotion, 
Fisherfolk  of  St.  Malo! 


THE  WHITE  PLUME. 

There  wore  plumes  of  white  to  wave 

O'er  the  helmet  of  the  brave 

When  the  pre?=  of  bnttle  ringed  him  in  the  fray, 

And  his  noble  steed  arose 

Against  the  v/all  of  foes 
AB  spirited  and  terrible  as  they. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  41 

There  are  plumes  of  white  that  glance 

O'er  the  beauty  in  the  dance, 

When  her  merry  eye  is  flashing  in  the  light, 

And  the  echoing  air  is  sweet 

With  the  rhythm  of  happy  feet, 
And  music  fills  the  watches  of  the  night. 

There  are  plumes  of  silver  steam 

In  the  steady  morning  gleam 

Over  railroad,  and  power-house,  and  mill, 

And  the  dingy  brick- work  reels 

With  the  motion  of  the  wheels, 
And  the  dingy  forms  inside  are  never  still. 

They  are  sweating  in  the  heat, 

The  machine  oil  isn't  sweet, 

And  the  cinders  not  poetical  at  all, 

But  the  world  is  vastly  brighter 

For  the  patient  furnace  lighter 
Than  for  battle,  or  for  tournament,  or  ball. 

There  are  loaves  for  those  who  need  them, 
And  books  for  those  who  heed  them, 
(For  the   school-house  bell    is    ringing    on    the 
street)  ; 

There  are  comforts  for  the  old, 

And  fuel  for  the  cold, 
And  leather  for  the  restless  children's  feet. 

The  farmers  all  around 

Bring  more  buckwheat  to  be  ground, 

And  the  cattle  are  increasing  on  the  hill, 

And  the  list  of  advertising 

Shows  that  real  estate  is  rising, 
And  that  carpenters  are  working  with  a  will. 


42  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

There's  romance  and  there's  devotion 

In  the  ceaseless,  steady  motion 

Of  the  piston,  and  the  belting,  and  the  fly, 

And  the  steam  of  the  condenser 

Is  the  incense  of  a  censer 
To  bear  the  prayers  of  workingmen  on  high. 

Long  live  the  plume  of  steam, 

With  its  steady  silver  gleam, 

As  radiant  and  useful  as  the  day; 
May  the  morning's  roses  meet  it, 
And  the  blue  of  heaven  greet  it, 

And  the  air  of  freedom  speed  it  on  its  way. 


THE  SHELL  ROAD. 

Gaily  ring  the  horses'  feet 

On  the  roadway's  shining  reaches, 
While  the  ocean's  pulses  beat 

Softly  on  the  southern  beaches. 

Tall  palmetto,  fragrant  bay, 
Myrtles,  oaks  and  oleanders; 

Onward  still  the  winding  way 

Past  the  bluff?  and  copses  wanders. 

Shells,  by  countless  millions,  shells 
LTnclerneath  the  horses'  feet, 

Once  the  myriad  rounded  cells 
Of  existence  strange  and  sweet. 


VERSES.  43 

Mussel,  coral,  conch,  and  pearl, 

Nautilus  and  star-fish  gay, 
Purple  volute,  radiant  whorl 

Carved  in  patient  Nature's  way. 

'Souls  by  countless  millions — souls 

In  their  endless  ^nt-rations; 
Souls  which  built  the  road  which  rolls 

All  the  thought  of  rising  nations. 

Cave-man — savage  strange  and  old, 
With  his  glimmering  intuitions ; 

Stone  age,  bronze  age,  fierce  and  bold, 
Joys  and  passions  and  ambitions. 

Kings  before  great  Agamemnon, 

Heroes,  chiefs,  inventors,  sages, 
Ere  the  power  of  poet  or  penman 

Came  to  echo  down  the  ages. 

Fierce  Egyptian,  thoughtful  Jew, 
Arab  sheikhs  and  Tyrian  traders, 

Homer's  Greeks,  and  Trojans  too, 
Patriots,  prophets,  priests,  invaders. 

Sappho's  lute,  Anacreon's  lyre 

Ringing  in  the  ocean  breeze; 
Pindar's  words  that  burn  like  fire, 

Thunders  of  Demosthenes. 

Roman,  noblest  soul  of  all, 

Eye  of  hawk  and  hand  of  steel; 
Mystic  Druid,  ardent  Gaul, 

Chanting  from  his  chariot  wheel. 


44  VERSES. 

Franks  and  Friesians,  Saxons,  Danes, 
Angrivarians,  Ampsivarians, 

Folk-moot,  hosting,  jarls  and  thanes; 
Fiercest,  wisest  of  barbarians. 

Blood  that  in  our  bosom  surges, 
Thought  that  all  our  spirit  fills. 

See,  the  bark  of  Hengist  urges : 
Hark,  the  shout  of  victory  thrills. 

Churls  who  faced  the  Norman  foe, 
Scots  who  under  Wallace  bled, 

Lord  and  vassal,  high  and  low, 
Country  born  and  city  bred. 

0,  the  threads  of  countless  lives 
Braided  in  this  life  of  ours:- 

Sturdy  squires  and  saintly  wives 
From  the  shade  of  minster  towers. 

Pressing  to  our  western  land. 

Puritan  and  pioneer. 
Stern  and  honored  forms  they  stand 

At  the  forge  of  history  here. 

Gaily  ring  the  horses'  feet 

On  the  road-way's  shining  reaches, 

While  the  ocean's  pulses  beat 
Softly  on  the  southern  beaches. 


.VERSES.  45 


PSYCHE. 

Perfect  hush  in  all  the  air; 

JSfot  a  whisper  in  the  trees; 
Summer  in  his  treasure  ne'er 

Garners  brighter  hours  than  these. 

Lowering  lurid,  o'er  the  hill, 

Masses  deep  of  livid  cloud 
Quiver  with  the  bolts  that  thrill 

In  the  tempest's  threatening  shroud. 

Soaring,  in  the  airy  space, 
Two  gay,  golden  butterflies, 

Floating  with  a  heavenly  grace, 
Still  in  hovering  spirals  rise. 

Flashing  on  the  indigo, 

Like  two  sparks  of  living  fire, 
Eising  from  the  world  below, 

Higher  yet  they  press  and  higher. 

Titan  masses  pile  above, 

Pregnant  with  the  lightning's  breath; 
See  them  there,  like  dreams  of  love — 

Deathless  at  the  gates  of  death. 

Eyes  celestial  watch  their  forms 

Through  the  trackless  ether  whirled, 

Guarded,  on  the  patli  of  storms, 
By  the  hand  that  rules  the  world. 


46  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 


PILATE. 

Power  is  real ;  wealth  is  real ; 

See  the  iron  legion  stand; 
Nothing  there  of  the  ideal; — 

Now  it  stirs  at  my  command. 

Power  to  set  a  world  in  motion 
From  the  rising  of  the  sun; 

Lo,  the  galley'?  on  the  ocean 
Ere  the  summons  is  begun. 

Power  to  curb  a  haughty  nation, 
Power  to  make  the  people  wait ; 

See  the  priest  forsake  his  station, 
Bowing  humbly  at  my  gate. 

Wealth  commands  refining  pleasure, 
Days  to  roam  the  land  and  sea, 

Hours  of  sweet  reflective  leisure, 
Hours  of  high  philosophy. 

Art  Athenian,  art  Ephesian, 

Alabaster,  emerald,  gold, 
Myron's  dearest,  dearest  vision, 

Grace  of  Zeuxis,  still  untold. 

Luxury  that  no  barbarian 

Dares  to  dream  of  shall  be  mine, 
Gate  of  bronze  and  roof  of  Parian 

On  the  stately  Aventine. 


VERSES.  47 

Eight  to  face  a  n;it ion's  sag 

Eight  to  seive  a  nation's  gods; 
Eising  o'er  the  hurrying  ages 

Jove  above  his  altar  i. 

Vain  your  dream  of  eastern  magic; 

Your  philanthropy  sublime 
Only  earns  a  torture  tragic, 

Burden  of  a  traitor's  crime. 

Vain  your  backward  turning  vision, 

Dreams  of  David  on  his  throne; 
See,  the  rabbins  howl  derision ; 

He  who  dies  must  die  alone. 

What  your  guerdon,  I  implore  you? 

Dying,  wretched  as  a  dog, 
With  a  sky  of  brass  before  you, 

Xailed  against  the  cursed  log. 

Will  you  force  the  will  of  Caesar? 

Break  the  peace  of  sea  and  land? 
With  a  lion  roaring,  he's  a 

Daring  man  who  lifts  a  hand. 

Youth,  with  eyes  of  eastern  languor, 

Sweet  compassion,  noble  fire, 
Free  from  bitterness  and  anger, 

Seeking  heaven  with  pure  desire, 

Lo,  you  stir  a  Eoman's  pity. 

Quick  ;  your  idle  dream  forsake. 
I'll  remove  you  from  the  city 

To  your  bright  Tiberian  lake. 


48  VERSES. 

There  the  azure  billow  slumbers 
Where  the  roses  shed  their  balm, 

Plashing  in  melodious  numbers 
Underneath  the  mystic  palm. 

What  can  be  your  strange  ambition? 

What  the  goal  of  your  desire? 
Lo,  your  nation  in  contrition, 

Writhing  in  the  temple's  fire. 

Listen  to  a  Eoman's  reason. 

Learn  compassion,  wisdom,  ruth; 
Cease  the  mischief  of  your  treason. 

Galilean,  what  is  truth? 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

The  autumn  suns  are  southering  fast, 

But  sunny  is  the  weather, 
And  Nature  and  the  human  heart 

Draw  closer  still  together — 

A  pair  acquaint  with  better  days 
And  thankful  for  the  blessing, 

Content  to  see  the  world  disrobed, 
And  welcome  next  year's  dressing. 

The  woods  are  full  of  sweetest  sounds 
For  those  who  pause  to  listen; 

The  streams,  unshaded  by  the  leaves, 
Itt  brighter  silver  glisten. 


VERSES.  49 

The  squirrel  has  laid  in  his  hoard 
And  stops  to  frisk  and  chatter, 

While  winter  wads,  his  silken  robe, 
And  makes  him  look  the  fatter. 

The  gentian  lifts  its  eye  of  blue 

To  meet  the  blue  above  it — 
The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  year 

To  those  who  know  and  love  it. 

The  oak  trees  sun  their  purple  robes 
And  shield  their  humbler  vassals; 

Witch  hazel  haunts  the  sylvan  paths 
And  shakes  its  golden  tassels. 

A  dandelion  on  the  bank 

Its  silken  leaves  is  showing, 
As  if  the  winter  storms  were  past 

And  April  breezes  blowing. 

We  better  read  the  signs,  and  know 
How  soon  the  clouds  will  darkle, 

And  icicles  upon  the  bough 
In  silver  tissue  sparkle. 

Like  dials  still  we  court  the  sun 

And  count  the  sunny  hours, 
Nor  waste  our  tears  for  autumn's  sweets 

And  summer's  brighter  flowers. 

What  we  have  lost  is  memory's  food; 

What  we  possess  is  treasure ; 
And  still  we  garner  sights  and  sounds 

For  corning  winter's  pleasure, 


50  VERSES. 

When  nights  are  long  and  days  are  dim 

It's  pleasant  to  remember 
Our  latest  ramble  in  the  woods — 

The  gift  of  bleak  November. 


0  air  divine,  whose  magic 
The  vistas  of  the  distant  hills, 
Where  faintest  blue  and  violet-gray 
Upon  the  dreaming  summits  play, 
And  clouds,  in  long  procession,  glide 
Above  the  mountain's  purple  side! 

The  shadowing  air,  that  fills  the  glade 
Beneath  the  forest's  proud  arcade, 
Where  beechen  pillars,  gleaming  white, 
Support  the  arch  of  verdant  night, 
And  golden  sunbeams,  piercing  keen, 
Reveal  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
The   solemn   firs   their  music   lend, 
The  winds  in  diapason  blend, 
And  feathered  choristers  beguile 
The  silence  of  the  fretted  aisle. 

The  mighty  air,  whose  pulses  fling 
A  cushion  for  the  sea-gull's  wing, 
Where  leaping  breakers  vainly  roar 
Upon  the  fatal  granite  shore, 
Or  bursting  billows  backward  glide, 
In  torrents,  from  the  iceberg's  side. 
Again,  the  wreathing  hands  of  foam 
Beckon  a  solemn  welcome  home 


VERSES.  51 

Where  royal  rainbows  radiant  Ho 
On  cloudsAthat  face  a  clearing  sky, 
Or  myriad  dancing  dimples  smile, 
At  sunset,  round  the  tropic  isle. 

The  mystic  air,  whose  magic  throws 
A  pearly  gleam  on  Alpine  snows, 
Where  doming  masse?  proudly  rear 
Their  outlines  in  the  ether  clear. 
At  noon,  the  sharp-cut  shadows  mark 
The  dazzling  drifts  with  sapphire  dark; 
At  eve,  the  dying  sun  bestows 
A  dower  of  burning,  blushing  rose, 
And  midnight  moons,  in  mercy  given, 
Salute  the  destined  bride  of  heaven. 

The  radiant  air,  whose  colors  play 
On  Volscian  ranges,  far  away. 
The  Angelus,  at  evening,  falls 
In  blessing  from  the  convent  walls; 
The  softened  chime  of  silver  bells 
The  joy  of  blessed  Mary  tells ; 
Declining  rays  of  sunlight  paint 
The  pathway  of  the  coming  saint, 
Where  beetling  limestone  cliffs  ascend 
And  melting  pinks  and  lilacs  blend — • 
The  mountain  bares  its  sacred  breast, 
And  lets  the  sunbeams  do  the  rest. 

The  glorious  air,  serene  and  free, 
On  Ischia's  violet-turquoise  sea 
Where  light,  arising  through  the  wave, 
Transfigures  Capri's  azure  cave. 
Oh,  is  it  water,  is  it  air 
That  melts  in  silver  radiance  there? 
Combining  powers  of  Xature  kiss, 
To  bathe  the  soul  in  sapphire  bliss. 


52  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

The  thoughtful  air,  whose  pinions  roam 
Around  San  Marco's  ancient  dome, 
Where  oriental  glories  pour 
Their  treasure  on  the  Adrian  shore. 
A  score  of  generations  rise 
In  varied  pageant  to  the  eyes ; 
In  jewelled  pomp  mosaics  smile 
Along  the  quaint  Byzantine  aisle, 
And  evening  incense  softly  glows 
Beneath  the  window's  mystic  rose. 

The  magic  air  that  painters  love — 
That  bore  the  wings  of  Raphael's  dove 
Where  heaven's  choicest  radiance  falls 
Around  Perugia's  castled  walls, 
And  rays  of  vernal  beauty  shine 
Above  Assisi's  distant  shrine. 
The  air  which  clasped  in  crystal  sphere 
Great  Titian's  glory,  sweet  and  clear, 
And  bade  Murillo's  spirit  soar 
To  regions  never  known  before. 
It  pours  its  light  of  amber  keen 
On  Veronese's  noble  scene, 
And  gladly  seek?  the  savage  cell 
Where  proud  Salvator  loved  to  dwell. 

The  tragic  air,  whose  shadows  haunt 
The  darkened  visions  of  Eembrandt, 
And  lays  the  crown  of  victory  sweet 
At  Angelo's  triumphant  feet. 
The  air  that  eases  Turner's  pain, 
That  calms  the  heart  of  Claude  Lorraine 
And  frames  the  upward  gazing  soul 
Of  Giotto  in  an  aureole. 

The  tender  air,  whose  pensive  glow 
Loves  the  perspectives  of  Corot, 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  63 

Where  poplar  dell  and  willow  isle 
Beneath  the  Norman  heavens  smile, 
Or  myrtle  sweet  and  ilex  shade 
Darken  the  turf  of  Nemrs  glade. 
The  Dryad  girls  forsake  their  haunts 
Beside  the  classic  lake  to  dance, 
And  spring,  once  more  returning,  thrills 
The  ancient  heart  of  Alhan  hills. 

The  sacred  air,  whose  rising  power 
Grew  conscious  in  a  nobler  hour, 
When  Galilean  fishers  come 
To  seek  the  holy  upper  room, 
Where  solemn  silence  breathless  trod 
Before  the  very  face  of  God. 
Hark,  how,  at  once,  the  bursting  gale 
Sounds  like  the  tempest  in  the  sail, 
Or  mountain  storms  that  fiercely  sweep 
At  midnight  through  the  forest  deep. 
Bright  tongues  of  lucent  fire  fall 
Beneath  the  eye  that  watches  all, 
And  burning  rapture,  once  again, 
Rests  on  the  brow  of  sinful  men. 
Above,  the  earthly  roofs  dissolve, 
The  distant  crystal  spheres  revolve; 
Deepening  abysses  ever  shine. 
Clearer  than   licrht,  sweeter  than  wine. 

0  Air  divine  !    0  Air  divine  ! 


54  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 


THE  BRAIN. 

There  are  regions  no  plummet  can  sound 

In  the  depths  of  the  pitiless  sea, 
Where  sunlight  forever  is  bound 

And  terror  alone  can  be  free; 
Where,  under  the  roots  of  the  mountains 

Despair  and  Eternity  kiss, 
And  Xature  grows  pale  at  the  fountains 

Which  fill  the  remorseless  abyss. 

There  are  realms  of  unthinkable  space 

Above  the  bright  vault  of  the  skies 
Where  Infinity  veils  her  dark  face 

And  Eeason  in  hopelessness  dies; 
Where  Creation  sits  mute  by  her  urn, 

And  the  Morning  Stars  echo  the  chime 
Which  Archangels  sing,  who  return 

From  the  domes  that  are  guiltless  of  time. 

And  yet  all  the  spirits  declare 

That  no  chasms  of  existence  remain 
So  unknown  to  the  hosts  of  the  air 

As  the  depths  of  the  marvellous  brain; 
The  brain,  with  its  stress  and  its  strain, 

Its  weariness,  madness,  and  pain  ; 
The  power  to  bear  all  the  weight  of  despair 

Which  is  found  in  the  depths  of  the  brain. 

The  ocean  of  consciousness  sparkles 
With  light  on  the  crest  of  each  wave, 

While  beneath  it  an  impotence  darkles 
To  see,  and  to  know,  and  to  save; 


VERSES.  55 

In  the  caverns  of  memory  deep 

The  visions  roam  wild  at  their  will 

Which  only  the  waters  that  steep 
The  poppies  of  Lethe  can  still. 

There's  a  dungeon  of  pitiless  Fate 

Where  Life  waxes  pallid  and  wan 
And  Ignorance  closes  the  gate 

On  the  hopeless  condition  of  man. 
Oh,  the  brain  with  its  stress  and  its  strain, 

Its  weariness,  madness,  and  pain — 
Only  God  from  above  with  his  might  and  his  love 

Can  enlighten  the  depths  of  the  brain. 


SLEEP  SONG. 

For  those  who  are  suffering  and  sore, 
For  those  who  are  weary  and  weep, 

A  guest  from  the  infinite  shore 
Comes  the  spirit  of  cradling  sleep. 

With  visions  of  beauty  that  bring 
Their  balm  from  the  isles  of  the  blest, 

Where  angels  in  ministry  sing 
The  souls  of  the  tortured  to  rest ; 

Where  those  we  have  loved  and  have  lost 

Await  us  in  fields  of  delight, 
Till  the  tides  of  the  ether  are  crossed 

And  hope  has  been  quickened  to  sight; 


56  VERSES. 

Where  the  stars  of  the  morning  rejoice 
In  the  brightening  breast  of  the  skies, 

Where  the  cherubim  utter  their  voice, 
The  antiphonal  seraph  replies. 

As  fresh  as  the  zephyrs  that  bear 
The  bird  on  the  winnowing  wing 

To  the  limitless  regions  of  air 

Where  mountains  in  majesty  spring; 

As  strong  as  the  billows  that  roll 
The  form  in  their  beryl  abyss, 

Where  currents  of  ocean  control 
And  powers  of  eternity  kiss; 

As  bright  as  the  radiant  pearl 

That  comforts  the  murmuring  shell, 

As  white  as  the  wings  that  unfurl 
From  the  wandering  nautilus  shell; 

As  soft  as  the  gentle  monsoon 
That  breathes  on  the  Indian  isle, 

As  silent  as  rays  of  the  moon 
On  the  bowers  of  Paradise  smile; 

As  fragrant  as  clouds  of  perfume 
That  waft  from  the  altar  of  gold, 

As  pure  as  the  joys  that  consume 
The  soul  with  their  rapture  untold ; 

As  sweet  as  the  dew  of  the  morn 
That  lights  on  the  lip  of  the  rose, 

As  clear  as  the  eye  of  the  fawn 

Comes  the  power  of  perfect  respose. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  57 

For  those  who  are  suffering  and  sore, 
For  those  who  are  weary  and  weep, 

A  guest  from  the  infinite  shore 
Comes  the  spirit  of  pillowing  sleep. 


WHERE  ? 

Vivid,  vital  domes  on  high, 

Quivering  founts  of  heavenly  light, 
Flashing  meteors  of  the  sky 

Tell  the  watches  of  the  night. 

Choirs  of  tuneful  stars  above 

In  their  robes  of  diamond  dressed, 

With  the  moon,  the  silver  dove, 
Circle  to  the  peaceful  west. 

Still,  we  know  what  forces  speed 
Underneath  our  silent  feet, 

How  the  powers  of  Nature  lead 

Where  the  dawn  and  darkness  meet. 

Night's  arising  curtain  shows 
Morning's  still  recurring  feast; 

All  our  orbing  planet  glows 
Swift,  to  seek  the  fatal  east. 

Plummets  cast  by  mortal  hands 
Never  reach  creation's  bars; 

Vain  our  human  compass  stands 
In  the  whirl  of  reeling  stars. 


58  VERSES. 

Up  and  down,  behind,  before, 
All  are  lost  in  gulfs  profound; 

All  the  dooms  of  human  law 

Faint  where  chimes  immortal  sound. 

On  the  road  of  wheeling  spheres, 
On  the  track  by  thunders  trod, 

Still  we  press  with  doubts  and  fears 
To  the  judgment  throne  of  God. 


SANTA  LUCIA. 

O'er  Ischia  far  a  silver  star, 
Its  radiant  blessing  signing, 

As  peaceful  guest  upon  the  breast 
Of  every  wave  is  shining. 

Across  the  bay  the  purple  ray 
Of  sunset's  rose  is  gleaming; 

With  fires  oppressed,  in  mighty  breast, 
Vesuvius  is  dreaming. 

The  vapors  rise  against  the  skies 
Where  evening's  glories  linger; 

The  stately  column,  erect  and  solemn, 
Is  like  a  spirit's  finger. 

Upon  the  porch  before  the  church 
The  fisher-folk  are  kneeling, 

While  silver-bell  with  sacred  knell 
Across  the  sea  is  pealing. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  59 

Each  lip  repeats  the  hymn  that  beats 

In  cadence  clear  and  ringing: 
"Ye  Powers  above,  respect  our  love, 

And  hear  our  spirits  singing. 

"Oh,  shield  each  life,  so  dear  to  wife, 

To  sister,  child,  and  mother, 
And  bring  again,  through  moons  that  wane, 

The  husband,  son  and  brother. 

"Deliver  still  from  every  ill 

Where  powers  of  darkness  gather; 

Protect  from  harm  and  night's  alarm 
The  lover  and  the  father. 

"Before  the  shrine,  with  light  divine, 

Our  taper  shall  be  burning, 
To  greet  our  brave  across  the  wave, 

At  break  of  day  returning." 


LOUIS  QUINZE. 

"What  a  glorious  edition — 
Like  a  dandy  at  a  dance 

Or  a  pink  of  erudition 

At  the  court  of  Louis  Quinze. 

"Red  morocco  !  what  a  binding  ! 

Perfect  paper,  supple,  thin ! 
Take  a  look  and  you'll  be  finding 

Splendid  copper-plates  within. 


60  VERSES. 

"Perfect  gilding,  perfect  tooling, 
Triumph  of  the  bookman's  art !" 

"Turn  it  over,  stop  your  fooling; 
Let  us  see  the  creature's  heart. 

"Grammont?  rather  sultry  reading; 

You  may  keep  the  painted  runyon; 
You  are  welcome  to  the  heading; 

Give  me  half  a  pound  of  Bunyan !" 

Down  he  threw  the  gilded  treasure, 

And  the  pages,  turning  over, 
Showed  where  book- worms,  for  their  pleasure, 

Gnawed  it  through  to  either  cover. 

Heartless  stuff,  befouled,  bepuddled; 

Like  a  gay  gallant  who  sails 
Velvet  coated,  powdered,  fuddled, 

Down  the  terrace  at  Versailles. 


RANZ  DES  VACHES. 

On  high,  facing  the  sky, 
Afar,  facing  the  star, 
Stand?  the  mountain, 

The  fountain  broods  o'er  waters  that  leap, 
From  the  fatal  steep. 

Dimly  seen,  gathering  sheen. 
Keen  and  white,  pregnant  with  light, 
Glows  the  morning : 

The  east  still  dreams  of  visions  that  rest 
In  the  peaceful  west. 


VERSES.  Cl 

Founts  of  love  stream  from  above, 
Feasts  of  light  flame  with  delight 
Ever  burning, 

The  day-spring  chants  of  powers  that  kisa 
In  the  vast  abyss. 

Fierce  the  strife,  darkness  and  life, 
While  the  world  onward  is  whirled, 
Swift  and  fatal. 

The  hour  is  hailed  by  spirits  that  sing 
On  their  rainbow  wing. 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  TUNE. 

Brightly  shines  the  mistletoe 
On  the  tavern's  ancient  rafter; 

Lads  and  lasses  all  aglow, 

Gaily  rings  the  pealing  laughter. 

Merry  flies  the  rigadoon 

Down  the  sides  and  up  the  middle, 
Following  the  plaintive  tune 

Of  the  gray-beard's  rosined  fiddle. 

"Father,"  says  the  Colleen  Bawn, 
Pausing  by  his  tired  shoulder, 

"Why  at  Christmas  so  forlorn?" 

"You  will  know  when  you  are  older." 

Softer,  now,  the  gentle  flame 

Of  the  eyes  with  beauty  glancing: 

"Father,  tell  us,  what's  the  name 
Of  the  tune  that  keeps  us  dancing?" 


63  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

In  the  faded  eye  a  dew, 

On  the  withered  lip  a  quiver: 

"Heart  of  gold  and  flowers  of  bluc- 
Underneath  the  snow  forever/' 


PORTAGE. 

The  sun  hovers  low  in  the  west, 
The  snow  mist  is  over  the  vale, 

The  smooth  flowing  waters  arrest 
The  light  with  a  radiance  pale. 

They  mirror  in  silver  the  hills 
That  round  them  in  ermine  arise, 

And  echo  the  rapture  that  thrills 
The  answering  heart  of  the  skies. 

They  linger  in  visions  of  hliss, 
Aware  of  the  currents  that  urge 

Their  flow  to  the  Powers  that  kiss 
The  foam-frozen  lips  of  the  gorge. 

One  instant  of  beryl  and  pearl, 

One  instant  of  emerald  gleam, 
And  the  nymphs  of  the  forest  unfurl 

Their  shroud  o'er  the  fall  of  the  stream. 

The  hemlocks,  encrusted  in  snow, 
Are  muttering  under  their  breath, 

And  bend  o'er  the  terrors  below 
Where  the  river  encounters  its  death. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  63 

A  gap  in  the  forest  reveals 

The  waters  that  whirl  to  the  sea, 
Ere  the  gloom  of  the  chasm  conceals 

The  fate  of  the  bright  Genesee. 


GAKLANDS. 

Who  comes  under  the  trees,  seeking  my  quiet  gate, 
Bright  as  murmur  of  bees  where  the  sweet  roses 

wait  ? 
Pardon.     Enter  my  garden. 

Flowers  are  blooming  for  you  to-day. 

Garlands  hang  in  the  door,  garlands  are  on  the 

wall; 
Bright  mosaic  the  floor,  where  the  soft  fountains 

fall. 
Shining  ivy  is  twining, 

Gay  as  myrtle  in  merry  May. 

Bring    your    cheerfullest    lute    strung    with    the 

Grecian  chord, 
I've  my  pleasantest  flute  where  the  sweet  notes  are 

stored. 

Waters  clear  as  the  daughters 
Of  the  nymphs  will  repeat  the  lay. 

Swiftly  moments  will  fly  under  the  vine  above, 
Till  eve  flushes  the  sky,  soft  as  a  Lesbian  dove. 
Gleaming  clouds  will  be  beaming, 
Stars  will  welcome  the  close  of  day. 


64  VERSES. 

Eastern  incense  is  sweet,  crowning  the  flickering 

fire, 

Gay  the  tact  of  the  feet,  ringing  with  sweet  desire. 
Dancing  is  most  entrancing 

Where  the  echoing  music  whirls. 

Short  the  day  at  the  best,  night  will  descend  too 

soon, 

Then  we'll  quietly  rest,  watching  the  rising  moon. 
Einging  echoes  the  singing 

Raised  by  voices  of  merry  girls. 


REST. 

When  silent  dusk  succeeds  the  eager  sun, 
Notes  of  sweet  comfort  fall  from  dewy  trees 
To  show  that  kindly  Nature  is  at  ease, 
Her  labors  ended  and  her  banquet  done, 
The  grateful  guests  departing,  one  by  one, 
To  nest  in  leafy  covert ;  and  one  sees 
The  gentle  current  of  the  evening  breeze 
Rock  the  light  cradles  of  repose  begun. 
In  the  vast  temple  of  the  sombre  night 
They  feel  no  lightest  fear  or  touch  of  care, 
Assured  that  heavenly  watchmen,  waiting  there, 
Will  trim  the  guardian  lamps  of  starry  light. 
Oh,  that  each  weary  heart,  to-night,  could  rest 
Its  weary  thought  in  so  composed  a  nest. 


.V  E  R  S  E  S  ,  65 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Still  is  the  gloaming, 

Silent  the  room; 
Sparrows  are  homing 

Where  cornices  loom. 

Newsboys  are  calling, 
Shadows  are  brown, 

Evening  is  falling 
Over  the  town. 

Gaslight  is  glancing 

Under  the  trees, 
Branches  are  dancing 

Soft  in  the  breeze. 

Voices  are  laiighing 
Out  in  the  park, 

People  are  chaffing 
There,  in  the  dark. 

Kindly  hand?  playing 

Over  the  way, 
On  the  keys  straying 

With  thoughts  of  to-day. 

Footsteps  belated 

Sauntering  by, 
Young  people,  mated, 

Watching  the  sky. 


66  VERSES. 

Stars,  that  are  gleaming 

Softly  above, 
Set  the  world  dreaming 

Of  nonsense  or  love. 

Old  people  thinking 
Thoughts  of  the  past, 

Evermore  linking 

This  world  with  the  last 

Fears  that  arc  banished, 
Joys  that  have  flown, 

Lives  that  are  vanished 
Out  of  their  own. 

Thousands  of  hearts 
Dream  of  to-morrow, 

Conning  their  parts 
Of  pleasure  or  sorrow. 

Footsteps  of  gladness, 
Eyes  of  delight, 

Memories  of  sadness, 
Voices  of  night. 


CENTRAL  PARK. 

Where'er  my  wandering  feet  are  led 
Her  gentle  form  will  glide, 

As  faithful  as  the  blessed  dead, 
Forever  at  my  side. 


VERSES.  67 

I  hail  each  dear,  familiar  seat, 

Our  shelter  in  the  noon ; 
The  vista  where  our  eyes  would  meet 

The  rising  of  the  moon. 

This  spot  among  the  ancient  trees 

Is  where  we  stopped  to  hear 
The  moaning  of  the  sobbing  breeze—* 

The  birds  that  triumphed  clear. 

Each  nook  recalls  some  word  she  said, 
Some  smile,  some  bit  of  verse, 

Our  musings  when  the  clouds  were  red, 
The  stories  we'd  rehearse. 

We  talked  of  May  dews,  pattering  cool; 

Of  robins,  as  they  slake 
Their  thirst  in  the  refreshing  pool; 

Of  lights  that  lit  the  lake; 

Lilncs,  wistarias  in  May, — 

Heaven's  bounty  to  us  all ; 
The  steady  hand  that  cleared  away 

The  withered  leaves  in  fall; 

The  boulder,  with  its  mystery; 

The   sheep,  with   patient  bleat; 
The  child,  with  budding  history 

And  eager,  hopeful  feet. 

Dear  park,  with  lawns  and  cool  arcades, 

How  many  a  memory  weaves 
Its  brightest  hours,  its  darkest  shades 

Among  your  murmuring  leaves ! 


68  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Full  many  a  troth  is  plighted  here, 
And  many  a  friend  must  part, 

And  many  a  story,  bright  or  drear, 
Lurks  in  your  silent  heart. 

Ten  generations  hence  you  still 
Will  smile  as  fair  as  now, 

Returning  birds  will  seek  your  hill 
And  starlight  crown  your  brow. 


THE  BOWERY. 

The  Bouwerie!  the  Bouwerie! 
In  Stuyvesant's  time  was  fair  to  see. 
The  old  Dutch  poplars  were  on  the  road, 
And  black  hens  cackled  and  roosters  crowed, 
And  the  windmills  turned,  and  they  made  the  hay, 
And  milked  the  cows  in  the  Holland  way. 
And  when  Sunday  came  the  Holland  girls 
With  bows  on  their  caps  and  flaxen  curls 
CM  me  walking  out  from  New  Amsterdam 
With  Jan,  and  Hendrick,  and  Dirck,  and  Ram, 
And  all  the  world  loved  it — because,  you  see, 
It  was  Pieter  Stuyvesant's  bouwerie. 

Xow  the  cable-car  rushes  behind  your  back, 
And  the  "L"  train  thunders  along  its  track, 
And  shops  about  you  are  always  bright, 
With  sun  by  day  or  electric  light, 
And  all  thr  world  of  the  great  east  side 
Ts  pouring  in  with  its  restless  tide, 
And  never  ceases — because,  you  see, 
There  are  things  to  buy  on  the  Bowery. 


VERSES.  69 

There  are  Germans,  Roumanians  not  i  few, 

The  thoughtful  Russian,  the  bright-eyed  Jew, 

The  Chinaman  with  his  sluinling  feet, 

Italians  from  Elizabeth  street, 

The  working  girl  with  her  gentle  grace, 

The  haggard  walker  with  painted  face, 

The  confidence  man,  who  smiles  just  the  same, 

The  bloated  drunkard  with  eyes  of  flame, 

The  cunning  sharper,  the  bruiser  wild, 

The  tired  mother  who  tends  the  child, 

The  workman  who  staggers  beneath  his  load 

While  the  gambler  shoves  him  from  the  road — 

A  pity  it  is ;  but  then,  you  see, 

There's  many  another  Bowery. 

The  Bowery,  the  Bowery  ! 
There  are  Hebrew  theatres  there  to  see, 
For  wherever  Abraham's  sons  are  whirled 
Their  mind  still  turns  to  the  old,  old  world; 
There  is  noble  David,  and  Solomon  wise, 
And  Esther  dear,  with  her  dove-like  eyes, 
And  people  love  them;  because,  you  see, 
There  are  thoughts  of  Cod  on  the  Bowery. 


THE  BREEZE, 

The  breeze  that  sways  the  poplar  trees,  and  sets 

them  all  in  motion. 
With  ruffs  of  white  that  make  the  leaves  more 

radiantly  green; 
That  sets  the  silver  clouds  adrift  upon  the  azure 

ocean 

With  pearl  and  sapphire  harmonies  where  angel 
wings  are  seen. 


70  VERSES. 

The  breeze  that  makes  the  ripples  laugh  upon  the 

rapid  river, 

Where  all  the  moths  are  wonderful  and  butter 
flies  are  gay, 

Where  dragon-flies  in  armor-plate  of  blue  and  pur 
ple  quiver, 

And  speckled  trout  are  leaping  where  the  golden 
shadows  play. 

The  breeze  that  rocks  the  downy  nests  where  robin 

hearts  are  dreaming 
Of  rapture  which  can   never    fill    the    anxious 

hearts  of  men, 
When  all  the  world  is  symphony,  and  all  the  ether's 

gleaming 

Because  the  summer  comes  to  cheer  the  dreary 
earth  again. 

The  breeze  that  blows  the  bees  about  among  the 

sunny  flowers 
When  basking  blossoms  bloom  their  best  beneath 

the  skies  of  June, 
When  lily  heads  are  nodding  light  to  greet  the 

sunny  hours, 

And  all  the  garden's  walks  repeat  the  fountain's 
silvery  tune. 

The  breeze  that  cools  my  lady's  cheek  and  sets  the 

dimples  dancing. 
That  wafts  the  ruffles  of  her  throat,  the  ripples 

of  her  hair; 

The  cunning  breeze  that  knows  the  trick  of  art 
fully  enhancing 

The  loveliest  of  lovely  things  in  all  the  realms 
of  air. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  71 

FISTULA  AMERICANA. 

Sicilian  Muses  blessed  the  shade 
Of  many  a  spirit-haunted  glade 
Where  shepherds,  on  the  mountain  side, 
Saw  the  swift,  silver  streamlets  glide, 
Or  paused,  amid  their  labors  sweet, 
To  view  the  plains  beneath  their  feet. 
No  sylvan  reed,  no  oaten  pipe 
Sounds,  where  our  harvests  beckon  ripe, 
As  once  where  /Etna's  runnels  ran; 
Yet  every  true  American 
Takes  music's  wine  in  thoughtful  sips 
With  wary,  rarely  opened,  lips. 
The  workman  plies  his  morning  chisel 
And  wakes  the  shop  with  cheerful  whistle, 
Or  falls  into  a  minor  strain 
To  test  his  edge  and  set  his  plane. 
The  mower,  straightening  from  his  task, 
Echoes  the  note  when  blue  birds  ask 
The  riddle  which  our  mother  Nature 
Puts  to  each  reasoning  human  creature, 
Where  engines  thunder  far  below 
The  grimy  stokers  whistling  go; 
The  whistle  cheers  the  mighty  sons 
Of  war  beside  their  thundering  guns, 
And  mingles  with  the  bounding  breeze 
Which  bears  the  sailor  o'er  the  seas. 
The  weary  mourner,  pacing  slow, 
Repeats  the  tune  she  used  to  know, 
Or  wakens,  in  the  morning  calm, 
To  dream  the  half-forgotten  psalm. 
And  when  the  farmer,  in  the  night, 
Returning,  sees  his  window-light, 


72  VERSES. 

Thinks  of  the  steps  that  haste  to  meet  him — 
Of  the  dear  eyes  that  shine  to  greet  him — 
No  softer  note  was  ever  played 
For  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

Dear  brother  Sleep,  I  pray  thee  lie 
Close  at  my  side;  thy  quiet  eye 
Shall  cool  my  lids;  thy  hand  shall  rest 
Like  magic  on  my  troubled  breast. 
And  harken,  if  our  brother  Death 
Shall  pass  this  way,  as  Sibyl  saith, 
Call  softly  to  him;  let  him  fling 
The  shadow  of  his  purple  wing 
Across  me.     Thus,  without  a  sigh, 
'Twere  sweet  in  Death's  own  arms  to  die. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SAW. 

There's  heft,  and  there's  temper,  and  such, 
Which  come  when  the  instrument's  made; 

Set  the  teeth  not  too  little  or  much. 
And  don't  bear  your  weight  on  the  blade. 

Oak  lumber  is  different  from  pine, 
And  sap-wood  is  softer  than  dry; 

Look  out  for  the  knots  and  the  line, 
And  measure  the  lengths  with  your  eye. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  ,  73 

It  isn't  in  sweating  and  hurry, 

It  isn't  in  bother  and  pain, 
For  reason  is  better  than  worry 

As  sunshine  is  better  than  rain. 

You  may  hack  till  your  temples  will  throb, 
And  you're  nothing  but  smew  and  bone — 

It  takes  reason  to  wind  up  the  job, 
And  leave  you  some  time  of  your  own. 

I  think  that  the  parson  has  said, 

(And  the  weight  of  the  sermon  I'll  own), 
That  faith  without  works  is  but  dead, 

And  that  works  will  not  kindle  alone. 

You  never  can  run  all  creation; 

The  shay  isn't  eyes  for  the  hoss ; 
Keep  up  with  the  sense  of  the  nation, 

But  don't  try  to  bully  the  boss. 

Leave  heaven  to  care  for  the  sinner, 

And  mercy  to  temper  the  law; 
Do  the  best  of  your  work  before  dinner, 

And  don't  leave  the  rust  on  your  saw. 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL. 

The  sun  had  passed  behind  a  cloud, 
A  gentle  air  was  breathing, 

A  cat  bird  warbled  clear  and  loud 
Where  clematis  was  wreathing. 


74  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

There  came  a  little  puff  of  sound, 
A  sort  of  gentle  frisking, 

As  if  a  bird  were  hovering  round 
Or  pretty  mice  were  frisking. 

And  then  a  glimpse  too  fair  to  last; 

For,  ere  the  eye  could  steal 
A  second  glance,  she  flitted  past — 

Miss  Fortune  on  her  wheel. 

Misfortune's  no  cognomen,  though, 
For  such  a  lovely  vision; 

'Twere  treason,  sure,  to  use  it  so — 
At  very  least  misprision. 

Loyal  to  Nature  we  must  be, 
Our  ever  kindly  teacher, 

With  dear  rewards  for  those  who  see 
Her  work  in  every  creature — 

And  most  of  all  in  her  who  came 
To  crown  the  life  of  Adam; 

If  Xature  is  our  gentle  Dame, 
Then  Eve  was  surely  Madam. 

But  this  Miss  Fortune  was  a  Miss, 
And  nothing  could  resist  her — 

A  gleam,  a  flower,  a  joy,  a  bliss, 
A  woman  and  a  sister. 

A  pretty  foot,  a  little  hand, 
A  whiff  of  subtle  fragrance, 

A  boon  to  those  who  roam  the  land 
As  ramblers  and  as  vagrants. 


VERSES.  75 

Music  will  wake  where'er  she  goes 
(For  music  must  delight  her) 

To  pluck  the  thorn  from  every  ro?e 
And  make  some  home  the  brighter. 

A  memory  of  delight  she  seems 

Each  woe  on  earth  to  heal. 
To-night  she'll  mingle  in  my  dreams 

Sweet  Fortune,  on  her  wheel. 


AN  EVENING  PARTY. 

Was  ever  ghost  so  blest  as  I? 

In  shades  of  twilight  stalking, 
Two  cheerful  nymphs  came  tripping  by 

And  took  me  off  a-walking. 

Was  it  my  star's  enchanting  bands? 

Was  it  some  fairy  giver? 
They  took  me  by  their  merry  hands, 

And  led  me  o'er  the  river. 

And  one  was  dark,  and  one  was  brown, 
And  both  of  them  were  laughing, 

And  so  we  wandered  from  the  town 
With  just  a  little  chaffing. 

Was  there  a  bridge?    I  cannot  tell; 

I  did  not  watch  the  going. 
The  sunset  I  remember  well, 

And  that  a  breeze  was  blowing. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

But  nyrnphs,  you  know,  have  rainbow  wings, 
And  ghosts,  though  gray  and  dismal, 

Sometimes  go  off  on  frisks  and  swings 
Through  depths  of  air  abysmal. 

The  sky  was  full  of  sunset  clouds 

In  sunset  glory  radiant, 
Which  made  us  think  of  jolly  crowds 

Invited  to  a  pageant. 

A  sort  of  general  carnival 

'Neath  solar  chandeliers, 
To  trip  it  lightly  at  the  ball 

With  music  of  the  spheres. 

Their  cloaks  were  made  of  satin  gray 

With  crimson  velvet  lining; 
They  hurried  to  the  gates  of  day 

With  faces  bright  and  shining. 

The  water  mirrored  all  the  show 

In  crystal  fair  and  beaming, 
Which  made  another  heaven  below, 

As  if  the  earth  were  dreaming. 

And  there  upon  the  western  sky 

A  silver  star  was  glowing, 
To  cheer  us  with  its  kindly  eye — 

A  look  of  peace  bestowing. 

It  promised  it  would  watch  by  night 

And  welcome  us  to-morrow, 
When  dawn  returned  with  rosy  light 

To  make  an  end  of  sorrow. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  77 

— If  any  ghost  is  glum,  and  limps, 

And  feels  inclined  to  shiver, 
He'd  better  find  a  pair  of  nymphs 

To  guide  him  o'er  the  river. 


THE  CORN. 

'Twas  my  third  year  of  wedded  life, 

And  yonder,  on  the  hill, 
I  sojourned  with  my  child  and  wife, 

Where  \ve  are  farming  still. 

We  lived  as  plain  as  we  could  live 

And  rose  before  the  light, 
But  somehow,  nothing  seemed  to  give 

The  profit  that  was  right. 

I'd  mortgage  interest  to  keep  down, 

And  other  bills  to  meet, 
Until  I'd  hate  to  come  to  town 

And  see  folks  on  the  street. 

I'd  fifteen  acres  laid  to  corn-— 

I  own  it  was  a  risk ; 
I  tried  it  as  a  hope  forlorn 

To  make  the  payments  brisk. 

I  had  to  sell  my  choicest  cow, 
Although  we  needed  milk; 

I  loved  the  beast,  I  will  allow, 
With  coat  as  smooth  as  silk. 


78  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

And  then  the  weather  turned  to  dry, 

Without  a  drop  of  rain; 
I'd  watch  that  yellow  western  ,sky 

Again,  and  still  again. 

At  last  the  babe  began  to  pine, 
And  Eachel  answered  mild, 

The  Lord  might  take  the  corn  and  wine, 
But  let  her  keep  the  child. 

The  mossy  stones  were  red  as  rust, 

No  water  in  the  ditch, 
As  Scripture  says,  'twas  brimstone  dust, 

And  all  the  streams  were  pitch. 

One  morning,  leaning  on  the  hoe, 

I  saw  some  water  clear 
Shining  upon  the  corn  below; 

Maybe  it  was  a  tear. 

Just  then  the  stalks  began  to  nod 

And  rustle;  I'll  be  sworn, 
I  thought  it  was  the  breath  of  God 

A -stirring  in  the  corn. 

The  air  was  fresh  upon  my  face 
And  sweet  upon  my  mouth, 

And  then  the  wind  began  to  race, 
Like  horses,  from  the  south. 

I  looked ;  the  sky  was  growing  white 

And  softening  above, 
Like  Eachel's  eye  of  patient  light, 

A  melting  down  in  love. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  79 

At  noon  the  rain  began  to  fall, 
And  lasted  through  the  night. 
You  might  have  seen  the  corn  grow  tall 
Before  your  very  sight. 

The  drops  came  down  as  straight  as  lead 

And  not  in  gusts  and  showers, 
And  everv  hill  of  corn  was  fed 

Through  all  the  blessed  hours. 

And  in  the  cooling  evening  air 

The  babe  was  sleeping  sweet, 
And  Rachel,  she  would  smooth  his  hair 

And  tuck  his  little  feet. 

So,  when  the  dawn  came,  bright  and  clear, 
And  sweet  with  morning  showers, 

There  never  was  a  house  so  dear 
As  that  old  place  of  ours. 

I've  hauled  full  many  a  load  of  care 

And  sorrow,  since  that  morn, 
But,  somehow,  God  was  always  there, 

A-rustling  in  the  corn. 


THE  CLINIC. 

As  snowy  as  the  sea-washed  shell, 
As  polished  as  the  perfect  fane 

Of  bright  Diana's  inmost  cell 

The  walls  of  porcelain  shine  again. 


80  VERSES. 

A  hidden  source  of  fervent  heat 
Distributes  warmth  to  every  part, 

As  vital  as  the  drops  that  beat 
In  pulses  from  a  maiden's  heart. 

The  chastened  daylight  in  a  flood 

Pour?  through  the  lofty  windows  fair, 

As  if  the  very  eye  of  Cod 

Were  resting  on  the  table  there. 

Around,  in  endless  order,  stand 
The  treasures  of  Invention  high, 

More  subtle  than  thf  softest  hand 
And  keener  than  the  clearest  eye. 

Oh.  not,  for  torture,  not  for  pain, 

The  probe,  the  saw,  the  lance,  the  knife, 

To  test  the  pulse  of  every  vein, 

And  fathom  all  the  springs  of  life. 

In  robes  of  white  the  doctors  wait 
As  priests  that  watch  a  sacred  shrine, 

Attending  the  decrees  of  fate 
And  ministers  of  love  divine. 

For  these  are  hands  well  fit  to  hold 
The  brush,  the  chisel,  and  the  pen, 

Whose  every  stroke  draws  pounds  of  gold 
Or  stirs  the  rapturous  thought  of  men. 

Duty  and  science  never  shirk, 

When  nature  faints  and  need  is  sore; 

These  men  are  doing  butcher  work 
For  one  they  never  knew  before, 


VERSES.  81 

The  leper's  woe*  belong  to  God, 
And  they  are  toiling  now.  as  He 

Who  once  the  path  of  sorrow  trod 
With  fisher-folk  by  Galilee. 

Blest   anaesthesia's   work   is    o'er, 

The  elevator's  ropes  arise, 
And  on  the  tranquil  upper  floor 

The  corpus  vile  safely  lies. 

The  latest  rays  of  evening  blend, 
A  hush  of  peace  is  on  the  place, 

And  kerchiefed  maidens  meekly  bend 
To  wipe  the  negro's  ashen  face. 


Sharper  than  the  two-edged  sword, 
To  pierce  the  hidden  depths  of  sin, 

The  mystic  power  of  the  Word 

Explores  the  thought  of  man  within. 

Oh,  when  the  woes  of  life  are  o'er, 
And  when  we  lift  our  darkened  eyes, 

May  we  behold  the  blessed  shore, 
Where  saints  await  in  paradise. 


THE  EVE  OF  SALAMIS. 

0  Salamis,  0  Salami's,  the  island  fair  and  free, 
The  very  joy  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  jewel  of 

the  sea ; 

The  shores  the  Nereids  love  to  grace  with  their  be 
witching  charms, 


82  VERSES. 

The  cliffs  the  awful  Tritons  reared  aloft  with 
mighty  arms; 

The  little  isle  that  dared  the  foe  with  all  his  bar 
barous  odds 

And  sheltered  on  her  sacred  soil  our  fathers  and 
our  gods ; 

The  refuge  of  the  wanderer,  the  hope  of  the  op 
pressed, 

Who  clasped  the  mother  and  the  child  on  her  pro 
tecting  breast — 

May  great  Poseidon  shield  thee  well  and  bid  thy 
sorrows  cease, 

To  crown  thy  walls  with  victory,  thy  palaces  with 
peace. 

0  Attica,  0  Attica,  our  mother  country  dear, 

Which  all  the  months  conspire  to  bless  through 
out  the  circling  year, 

The  land  that  dear  Athene  shields  beneath  her 
azure  dome, 

Where  every  hero  found  of  old  his  most  familiar 
home; 

The  land  Apollo  loves  to  bless  with  all  his  radiance 
fair, 

Where  every  temple  stands  revealed  in  most  pel 
lucid  air, 

Where  Xaiads  seek  the  shady  dells  and  speed  the 
crystal  streams, 

Whore  cloudlets  float  across  the  sky  like  raptures 
in  our  dreams, 

Where  sweetest  echoes  haunt  the  rocks,  where  fra 
grance  fills  the  vale, 

Where  ring-doves  nest  in  balmy  woods  and  call 
the  nightingale. 


VERSES.  83 

Where  bright  cascades  from  mossy  cliffs  descend 

in  radiant  rills, 

To  water  glowing  hyacinths  and  golden  daffodils, 
Where  mountains  melt  in  rainbow  hues  and  lure 

the  sunset  down, 
Where  sister  summits  link  the  land  within  a  violet 

crown, 
Where  every  hill-side  shields  the  graves  of  fathers 

brave  and  free 
And  the  great  ghosts  of  Marathon  watch  by  the 

sounding  sea — 

May  Zeus  almighty  hear  our  cry,  and  bend  in  pity 
ing  ruth 
To  shower  on  thy  wasted  shores  the  treasures  of 

thy  youth ! 


Two  thousand  thousand  myrmidons,  the  crudest 

of  foes, 
Have  trampled  into  bloody  mire  the  lily  and  the 

rose; 
Where  once  the  altar's  fire  was  seen,  where  once 

the  harvest  smiled, 
Grim  famine  gnaws  his  withered  lip  and  glares  on 

ruin  wild. 
No    sculptured    architrave    is    seen,    no    marble 

columns  stand 
Where  once  a  hundred  palaces  adorned  a  gracious 

land. 
The  smoke  of  burning  cities  floats,  a  melancholy 

pall, 
Above  the  happy  fields  which  gave  our  life,  our 

love,  our  all. 


84  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

The  satrap  spreads  his  gilded  tent,  the  plumed  as 
sassin  roves 

Where  once  Athene's  shrine  appeared  in  Erech- 
thcan  groves, 

And  wisdom  fair  has  left  her  home  among  the  olive 
trees, 

To  find  a  shelter  in  the  brow  of  great  Theniisto- 
cles. 


0  monstrous  mass  of  barbarous  ships!  0  portent 
vast  and  fell, 

The  spawn  of  every  eastern  wharf,  the  harbingers 
of  hell ! 

Where  Moloch's  death-fires  light  the  mast,  where 
Baal's  prophets  ban, 

Where  Isis  and  Osiris  blast  the  thought  of  free- 
born  man, 

Where  horrid  ensigns  flaunt  the  skies  and  threaten 
hideous  strife, 

Where  bloody  tvranny  defies  the  hope  of  Grecian 

life- 
May  heaven  and  earth  accept  the  gnge  and  rise  in 
all  their  might 

To  hurl  the  demon  hack  again  in  deepest  shades  of 
night; 

May  storm  and  tempest  speed  our  barks,  may  flash 
ing  bolts  be  hurled, 

May  victory  crown  Themistocles  and  save  the  dark 
ened  world ! 


VERSES.  85 

THE  PILLAR  OF  FIRE. 

The  radiance  of  the  western  sun  fell  in  a  crimson 
flood, 

And  Sinai's  sandstone  masses  glowed  like  sacri 
ficial  blood — 

Each  crag  and  pinnacle  revealed  against  the  vio 
let  sky, 

As  if  no  cloud  had  ever  hid  that  crest  from  human 
eye. 

A  solemn  silence  filled  the  air — a  silence  that  was 

heard ; 
Xo  palm  tree  fanned  its  weary  frond,  no  blade  of 

grass  was  stirred, 
The  desert  broom  was  still  as  death  upon  the  heated 

sand, 
The  presence  of  an  awful  power  was  brooding  o'er 

the  land. 

Above  the  altar  rose  the  smoke  upon  the  ether  calm, 
As  soars  the  cypress  o'er  the  spot  where  roses  shed 

their  balm. 
All  hearts  were  hushed,  all  lips  were  stilled,  and, 

each  beside  his  tent, 
The  hosts  of  mighty  Israel  in  adoration  bent. 

The  darkness  fell.  The  mystic  cloud  above  the 
holy  shrine 

Revealed  a  heart  of  fire  and  glowed  with  radiance 
divine, 

Then,  like  a  fount  of  light  it  rose  above  the  shad 
owed  earth, 

As  angels,  from  their  mission,  seek  the  heaven  of 
their  birth. 


86  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

Swift  as  an  eagle's  cry  the  trumps  alarmed  the 
silent  air; 

No  time  there  was  for  doubt  or  fear,  and  scarce  a 
time  for  prayer. 

Each  Levite  seeks  his  sacred  task,  the  golden  col 
umns  fall, 

The  pictured  veil  enfolds  the  ark  in  emblematic 
pall. 

No  sound  of  tumult  stirs  the  camp,  but,  moved  by 

power  divine, 
Each  household  strikes  its  tent,  each  tribe  is  found 

in  solemn  line, 
Jehovah's  presence  leads  the  way,  and  towards  the 

appointed  north, 
The  marshalled  nation's  bannered  hosts  pour  like 

a  river  forth. 

God  calls  the  muster  of  the  stars,  unknown  to  mor 
tal  ears, 

And,  at  the  summons,  every  orb  upon  his  post 
appears, 

Each  starry  spirit  trims  his  lamp,  each  knows  his 
ancient  name, 

And  on  the  darkening  breast  of  night  is  seen  the 
very  same; 

Arcturus  rears  his  sceptre  high,  and,  clad  in  robes 
of  day, 

A  million  suns  in  order  stand  along  the  milky  way. 

Thus,  every  Hebrew  feels  the  thrill  of  Moses'  guid 
ing  rod, 

And  in  the  pillared  splendor  sees  the  very  hand  of 
God. 


VERSES.  87 

The  calm  of  age,  the  zeal  of  youth  advance  with 

even  pace, 
And  light  eternal  seals  the  hope  on  each  uplifted 

face. 

"Farewell  to  Sinai,  whence  the  Law  pealed  forth 
with  power  sublime, 

The  voice  which  calls  us  now  shall  ring  through 
all  the  vaults  of  time, 

Farewell  to  freedom's  early  days,  farewell  the  des 
ert  sand, 

The  light  that  guides  our  ransomed  feet  shall  lead 
from  land  to  land. 

<cNo  thought  of  harvests  left  unreaped,  of  labors 

left  undone, 
The  hand  that  gives  the  manna  is  the  hand  that 

holds  the  sun. 
Where'er  the  radiant  cloud  shall  rest  our  banners 

shall  be  furled, 
The  God  who  called  our  fathers  is  the  God  who 

owns  the  world." 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  DAYS. 

We  like  to  think  of  other  times  when  all  the  world 

was  brighter, 
When  all  the  boys  were  sociable,  and  all   the 

girls  were  gay, 
When   winter   cheeks   were   ruddier   and  summer 

mornings  lighter, 

And  it  took  a  dozen  perfect  hours  to  make  an 
average  day. 


88  VERSES. 

Some  leaden  skies  there  were,  no  doubt,  but  those 

we  don't  remember; 
The  little  frets  and  bothers  that  never  stopped 

the  play ; 
The   afternoons   were   bright   enough   throughout 

the  short  November, 

And  all  the  perfect  bliss  of  life  was  crowded  into 
May. 

The  summer  flowers  were  fairer  far,  the  autumn 

fruits  were  sweeter, 
And  sleep  was  so  delightful  that  morning  came 

too  soon; 

The  birds  were  singing  all  the  day  their  own  pecul 
iar  metre 
Until  the  blushing  sunset  came  to  greet  the  ris- 


The  winter  snow  was  pure  and  white — just  made 

to  pelt  and  tumble ; 
It  really  seemed  as  warm   as   wool   and  always 

came  to  stay ; 
And  overshoes  were  nuisances — you  never  had  to 

stumble 

Along  the  sloppy,  dreary  roads  as  people  do  to 
day. 

And,  oh,  the  joys  of  chestnutting— the  crashing 

of  the  branches, 

The  shrieks  of  girlish  ecstasy,  the  shouts  of  boy 
ish  fun. 
We  danced  upon  the  russet  burrs  like  Choctaws  and 

Comanches, 

Until  the  shower  began  again,  and  lasses  had 
to  run. 


VERSES.  89 

And  even  school  was  not  so  bad,  in  spite  of  imper 
fections  ; 
The  benches  were  not  always  hard,  nor  teachers 

always  glum ; 
And  then  there  came  the  bright  recess,  the  sociable 

refections 

We  used  to  munch,  until  the  bell  would  bid  the 
loiterers  come. 

And  think !  the  eyes  we  used  to  watch,  the  hands 

that  used  to  greet  us, 
The  battered  hats  that  twirled  aloft,  the  laughs 

that  used  to  ring; 
What  golden  light  descended  on  the  forms  that 

came  to  meet  us, 

As  we  started  on  our  homeward  way  like  birds 
upon  the  wing. 

Thank  Heaven   for  children  growing  up  as  tur 
bulent  as  ever, 
For  sweeter  voices  left  to  sing  the  songs  we  left 

unsung, 
For  boys  as  true  and  mischievous  and  girls  as  sweet 

and  clever 

As  in  the  perfect  time?  of  old  when  all  of  us 
were  young. 


WESTERN  ATHENS. 

Fair  are  the  azure  skies  that  glance 
Above  the  vine-clad  slopes  of  France, 
Where  storied  pinnacles  look  down 
Upon  the  cheerful  modern  town, 


90  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

And  silent  forms  of  history  meet 
The  passer  on  the  sunny  street. 

Fair  are  the  villages  that  shine 
Upon  the  banks  of  Father  Rhine, 
Where,  from  the  crags,  the  castles  gaze, 
Grim,  through  the  golden  river  haze, 
And  quaintest  gables  from  on  high 
Nod  to  the  barges  drifting  by. 

Fairest  of  all,  the  towns  that  lave 
Their  walls  in  the  Italian  wave; 
Where  Tasso's  laureled  spectre  roves 
Through  sweet  Sorrento's  orange  groves, 
And  old  Arnalfi's  towers  smile 
Upon  the  Siren's  fateful  isle. 

No  shades  historic  come  to  crown 
Our  quiet  Pennsylvania  town ; 
No  tragic  whisper  fills  the  breeze 
That  stirs  the  peaceful  maple  trees. 
Four  generations  scarce  are  sped 
Since  the  last  Indian  warrior  fled 
And  left  our  ancestors  to  rear 
Their  cabins  by  the  waters  clear; 
A  stalwart  race  of  sober  men 
To  speed  the  realm  of  godly  Penn, 
And  bid  the  tasseled  harvest  wave, 
A  requiem  o'er  the  sachem's  grave. 
A  simple  people,  but  they  brought 
The  lessons  by  the  Saxons  taught 
Of  lofty  freedom's  noble  mood 
And  fealty  to  the  public  good ; 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  01 

The  steady  hand,  the  silent  tongue, 
The  rustic  schoolhouse  for  the  young, 
The  eye  of  Duty  stern,  which  saw 
No  happiness  without  the  law, 
And  Self-Denial's  quiet  face 
To  watch  the  progress  of  the  race. 
Soon,  o'er  the  trees,  the  churches  rise 
To  point  the  toiler  to  the  skies, 
And   silver  chimings  softly  fill 
The  echoes  of  each  ancient  hill. 

Hail  to  our  western  Athens ;  hail 

The  town  that  crowns  the  fruitful  vale  I 

May  Peace  and  Labor,  hand  in  hand, 

Bestow  their  blessing  on  the  land, 

While  Susquehanna's  waters  sweep 

In 'silence  to  the  distant  deep. 


PERFUME. 

Pour  us,  0  Nature,  your  treasure  of  fragrance, 
Child  of  the  sunlight  and  guest  of  the  air, 

Shed  from  the  blossoms  where  humming-bird  va 
grants 
Pilfer  the  sweets  of  the  chalices  fair. 

Trumpets  of  bloom  where  the  honey-dew  lingers, 
Myrtles  whose  soul  we  can  never  forget, 

Pinks  softly  flushed  by  the  dawn's  rosy  fingers, 
Pendant  acacia  and  sweet  mignonette. 


92  V  ERSES. 

Heliotrope  dear  as  the  love  of  a  maiden. 

Lilies  bright  freaked  with  the  gold  of  their  heart, 
Orange  buds  fresh  from  the  gardens  of  Aden., 

Masses  of  lilacs  where  honey  bees  dart. 

Violets  faint  from  the  forehead  of  Hera, 
Hyacinths  glowing  from  Latmos's  cave, 

Breezes  of  balm  as  the  shipman  draws  nearer, 
Speeding  his  bark  on  Arabia's  wave. 

Cypresses  framing  some  vision  of  Sappho's, 
Hedges  of  box  from  the  Palatine  hill, 

Tangles  of  sweets  from  Cythera  and  Paphos, 
Where  Venus's  amaranth  blooms  at  its  will. 


Spices  of  Borneo,  gums  of  Sumatra, 

Breath  of  the  ocean  arid  glint  of  the  isle, 

Lotus  that  blossomed  when  once  Cleopatra 

Swept  in  her  barge  o'er  the  waves  of  the  Xile. 

Roses  of  Hafiz  bedewed  by  the  fountain, 

Where  nightingales  answered  the  notes  of  the 
dove, 

Jasmine  that  waved  on  Himalyah's  mountain, 
When  Shah  Jehan  roved  at  the  side  of  his  love. 


Cinnamon  burning  in  domes  of  Benares, 

Sandal  wood  sweet  from  the  shrines  of  Cathay, 

Oberon's  gift  to  his  legion  of  fairies, 

When  night  quickens  clear  to  the  eyes  of  the 
day. 


VERSES.  93 

Daphnes  all  white  with  the  snows  of  the  ages, 
Garlands  still  fragrant  in  memory's  hands, 

Blossoms  pressed  softly  in  history's  pages, 
Joy  of  all  nations  and  light  of  all  lands. 


Pour  us,  0  Nature,  your  treasure  of  fragrance, 
Child  of  the  sunlight  and  guest  of  the  air, 

Shed  from  the  blossoms  where  humming-bird  va 
grants 
Pilfer  the  sweets  of  the  chalices  fair. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Kind  Nature  laid  upon  his  eyes 
Her  fingers  cool  with  rainbow  dew, 

And,  looking  up  in  glad  surprise, 
He  saw  a  world  forever  new. 

As  when  his  fresh-born  Adam,  laid 
On  fragrant  Eden's  sacred  sod, 

Looks  awe-struck,  dumb,  but  not  dismayed, 
Upon  the  very  face  of  God. 

The  brother-cherubs  wondering  stand 
To  watch  their  Maker's  purpose  dark, 

As,  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
He  gives  his  son  the  master-spark. 

Creation,  thus,  in  sudden  blaze, 
Met  Angelo's  astonished  view, 

Majestic  nights,  triumphant  days, 
The  strange,  the  beautiful,  the  true. 


94  V  E  K  S  E  S  . 

Whatever  met  his  sense?  keen, 
His  visualizing  power  could  keep, 

As  sharp  as  fate  on  Memory's  screen 
And  garnered  in  her  caverns  deep. 

Beneath  that  Roentgen  ray  the  skin 
Of  man  became  as  glass — he  saw 

The  temple  of  the  bones  within, 
The  tendon's  force,  the  muscle's  law, 

The  arching  paltic-e  of  the  brain, 
The  will  that  holds  supreme  control, 

The  love  that  stirs,  the  fears  that  strain, 
The  tides  that  sway  the  human  soul. 

Beneath  his  hand  of  fiery  power. 

The  solemn  bronze,  in  quickening  pain, 

Melted  like  wax  a  single  hour, 
Then  stood  forever  bronze  again. 

The  radiant  wall  in  beauty  blushed, 
The  prophets  glowed  with  rapture  meet, 

The  rising  dead  were  awed  and  hushed 
Beneath  their  Judge's  burning  feet. 

Swelling  to  meet  the  heaven  above, 
Arose  St.  Peter's  mighty  dome, 

Surging,  as  with  a  spirit's  love, 
To  heal  the  wreck  of  pagan  Eome. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  95 


HOTEL  DIETL 


Three  o'clock,  and  all  is  well 
In  the  halls  of  God's  Hotel. 
Softly  now  the  echoes  play 
From  the  churches  far  away, 
With  a  message  stern  and  sweet, 
Over  many  a  slumbering  street. 
Up  and  down  the  nurses  go 
Through  the  aisles  of  human  woe; 
No  emotion,  not  a  word. 
Scarce  the  quiet  step  is  heard, 
But  the  pillowed  faces  greet 
Steady  hand  and  noiseless  feet, 
Medicine  and  anodyne, 
Sorrow's  balm  and  torture's  wine. 

There's  another  figure  there, 
Dark  as  midnight,  light  as  air ; 
Where  she  looks,  the  shivers  pass 
O'er  the  forehead  like  a  gins- : 
Where  she  halts  a  deeper  frown, 
Draws  the  sleeping  eyelids  down. 
Starting  sweat  and  quivering  vcin- 
Softly,  softly,  Madam  Pain.  ' 

See  the  doctor,  old  and  gray, 

Coming  down  the  fatal  way, 

Pausing  where  the  watchlight  falls, 

In  a  halo  on  the  walls, 

Like  a  benediction  shed 

On  the  quiet  sufferer's  head. 


96  VERSES. 

Here's  no  trouble — just  a  trace 

Of  exhaustion  in  the  face ; 

Waxen  hands  that  softly  rest. 

Folded,  on  the  peaceful  breasi. 

Scarce   you   hear   that   faintest   breath — • 

"Thank"  you,  kindly,  Doctor  Death." 


ALLEGRO  MA  XOX  TROPPO. 

Crepusculum,  (the  word,  in  Latin, 
Implies  a  time  to  chirp  and  teeter), 

When  Eastern  skies  arc  gray  as  satin 
And  sparrows  practice  all  their  metre. 

The  drowsy  swallows  try  to  smother 
Their  yawns  in  most  mellifluous  tones, 

While  each  bird  chides  his  sleepy  brother 
And  scolds  him  for  a  lazy-bones. 

Then  comes  a  rain  of  music,  slipping, 
In  casual  dew-drops  from  the  grove, 

While  choristers,  their  nectar  sipping. 
Awake  from  dreams  of  heaven  and  love. 

And  when  the  whitening  morning  star, 
Has  faded  o'er  the  solemn  hills, 

The  robin  wakes  his  light  guitar, 

And  tunes  his  pipe  of  various  quills. 

Robins,  proportionally,  take 

Food  for  a  dozen  average  mortals ; 

Think  of  the  red  blood  it  must  make 
To  surge  through  the  aorta's  portals! 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  97 

For  wings  require  more  force  than  feet; 

Angelic  food  must  be  supporting; 
And  with  it  comes  the  music  sweet, 

The  eager  notes  and  thoughts  transporting. 

So  Shelley's  sky-lark  is  quite  true. 

We  don't  conceive  or  dream  the  rapture 
Of  him  who  mounts  the  heaven's  blue 

Beyond  the  earth  and  fear  of  capture. 

The  joy,  the  peace,  the  bliss,  the  love 

With  which  each  feathered  bosom  flutters, 

While  fields  of  azure  wait  above 
And  Nature  all  its  mystery  utters. 


But  when  the  breath  of  ardent  noon 
Is  resting  on  the  leafy  bowers, 

The  birds  prefer  to  rest  and  spoon 
Beneath  the  shade,  in  languid  hours. 

The  oriole  may  hang  her  nest 

On  lofty  elm — but  what's  the  use? 

Better  to  seek  the  calm,  and  rest 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  spruce. 

Her  orange  breast  is  very  piy, 

But  pride  like  that  repels  and  shocks; 
There's  sober  wisdom  every  day 

For  those  who  con  the  insect  stocks. 


98  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Grasshopper's  firm,  but  grubs  are  low, 
And  moth?  inspire  a  general  dizziness. 

Better  the  mining  shares,  which  show 
A  flush  of  worms  and  general  business. 

So,  gathering  in   the  gloom   alone, 
They  check  their  accents  soft  and  fleet, 

While  Summer  gently  wards  her  own 
Through  hush  of  air  and  pressing  heat. 


When  evening  mounts  her  gorgeous  throne, 
And  roses  flush  the  melting  west, 

A  sweet,  delightful  .nonotone 
Of  calm  prevails  in  every  breast. 

A  vesper  hymn  is  on  the  air 

And  fills  the  ether  with  its  blessing, 

While  spirits  climb  the  golden  stair, 
To  witness  nature's  great  undressing. 

The  last  sweet  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 
With  dreamy  notes  the  grove  are  thrilling, 

And  gentle  twilight  broods  above, 
Its  dew  of  genial  hope  distilling. 

Keep,  glorious  stars,  the  watch  on  high,, 
While  fluttering  bosoms  softly  rest; 

There's  power  in  the  midnight  sky 
To  guard  the  robin's  silent  nest. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  99 


YANKEE  DOODLE. 

Yankee  Doodle  kept  a  school 
To  make  his  children  handy; 

"Set  the  best  to  teach  the  rest," 
Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

"Come  to  school  and  mind  the  rule, 
For  that  will  make  you  handy, 

Never  fight  unless  you're  right," 
Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

"Washington  he  led  his  class, 
And  how  was  Master  Andy 

Jackson  down  at  New  Orleens?" 
Said    Yankee   Doodle   dandy. 

"Keep  at  work,  when  others  shirk, 

Never  mind  the  candy, 
That's  the  way  to  make  the  hay/' 

Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

Once  the  boys  they  had   a   fight, 
Between  the  hours  of  schooling, 

Yankee  he  picked  up  his  stick 
And  went  to  stop  the  fooling. 

"Grant  and  Sherman  can't  be  beat, 
And  Lee  is  pretty  plucky, 

Never  have  a  fight  again. 
And  then  we'll  call  it  lucky." 


100  VERSES. 

"Massachusetts  rather  tough, 

Jersey  pretty  sandy : 
Farmer  stuff  is  good  enough," 

Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

"Old  Virginny  never  tire, 
Georgia  spick  and  spandy, 

Just  a  little  southern  fire," 
Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

"This  'ere  yard  is  plenty  wide 
Enough  for  average  showing, 

Never  mind  the  boys  outside, 
Unless  they  take  to  blowing." 

"Just  bring  in  the  Philippines 
And  teach  them  to  be  handy, 

That  is  all  the  lesson  means," 
Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 

"Come  to  school  and  mind  the  rule, 
For  that  will  make  you  handy. 

Never  fight  unless  you're  right," 
Said  Yankee  Doodle  dandy. 


THE  SYMPHONY  CONCERT. 

A  burst  of  silver  radiance  starts 

Beneath  the  winter  sun; 
Three  thousand  listening,  breathless  heart? 

Are  beating  here  as  one. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  101 

Each  with  its  dower  of  life  or  grief, 

Like  priestesses  who  wait, 
Crowned  with  the  rose  or  cypress  leaf, 

Before  the  cave  of  Fate. 

And  then  a  living,  countless  tide 

Of  ringing,  swaying  notes 
Comes,  as  in  spring  the  breezes  glide 

To  wake  the  robins'  throats. 

Each  leaf  repeats  the  conscious  bliss, 

Each  fragrant  blossom  thrills, 
The  rosy  Hours  and  Graces  kiss 

The  breast  of  ancient  hills. 

A  pause — a  solemn,  magic  voice 

Is  echoing  soft  and  mellow, 
A  thousand  woes,  a  host  of  joys 

Blend  in  the  mighty  'cello. 

The  poet's  note  that  soars  above, 

Or  art's  supreme  magician, 
The  voice  that  floats  on  wings  of  love 

To  greet  the  mounts  of  vision. 

The  cry  that  rings  to  clouds  on  high, 

That  wakes  the  dewy  dell, 
While   sky-larks   listen,   as  they   fly, 

T,o  one  who  knows  their  spell. 

A  single  soul  can  mirror  all, 

The  power  of  human  passion — 
The  Prophet,  with  the  skill  to  thrall 

Creation's  fleeting  fashion. 


102  VERSES. 

Softer  and  softer  the  refrain 

Is  swaying  like  a  censer; 
The  rippling  violins  complain 

With  rapture  still  intenser. 

Thus  Nature  wakes  our  fainting  soul 
With  her  divinest  pleading, 

And  brings  the  comfort  and  control 
Of  blessed  spirits  speeding. 

She  sounds  the  depths  of  mortal  woe 
Through  countless  generations, 

And  answers  burning  souls  that  glow 
In  their  appointed  stations. 


THE  RIVER. 

Gentle  river,  laughing  river, 
Sky  reflector,  verdure  giver, 
Waving  branches  at  thy  side, 
Bow  to  thank  the  nurturing  tide, 
Pendant  wreaths  of  blossoms  sip 
Nectar  with  their  fragrant  lip; 
Velvet-breasted  swallows  skim 
Where  the  dimpling  sunbeams  swim, 
Where  the  placid  waters  smile, 
Circling  round  the  peaceful  isle. 

Dappled  fawns  and  timid  deer 
Gather  at  thy  fountains  clear, 
Where  the  forest  shadows  play 
On  the  mountains  far  away. 


VERSES.  103 

Swooping  gulls  on  pinion  free 
Wait  thy  coming  at  the  sea, 
Where  the  rising  breakers  roar, 
Hoarse  upon  the  rock-bound  shore, 
Where  the  endless  line  of  foam 
Gives  the  solemn  welcome  home. 

Past  is  all  the  changeful  strife, 
Past  the  dreams  of  sunny  life, 
Ne'er  again  the  bark  shall  flash, 
Ne'er  again  the  oar  shall  plash, 
Tower  and  town  no  more  shall  gleam, 
Flickering  in  the  crystal  stream. 

Child  of  sea-born  clouds,  return 
To  the  Naiad's  natal  urn, 
Blest  and  blessing  was  thy  course, 
Free  from  trouble  and  remorse, 
Speed  to  taste  the  ecstasy 
Of  the  vast  eternity. 
Softly  kiss  the  golden  sand, 
Softly  quit  the  sheltering  land, 
Die  without  a  sob  or  shiver, 
Gentle  river,  peaceful  river! 


GAZEL  OF  HAFIZ. 

No  roses  are  ever  so  fair  to  my  sight   - 

As  when  in  the  locks  of  my  lady  they  twine, 

No  wave  from  the  fountain  so  limpid  and  bright 
As  when  tinged  with  the  ruby  that's  pressed  from 
the  vine. 


104  VERSES. 

Oh,  fair  is  the  tall  nodding  cypress,  and  fairer 
The  soft-swaying  blossoms  that  breathe  of  de 
light; 

But  lovelier  far  are  the  cheeks  of  my  Zara, 
Like  baskets  of  tulips  of  crimson  and  white. 

Vain,  vain  is  the  effort  of  painters  who  try 
To  rival  the  grace  of  the  natural  curl, 

The  ivory  neck  and  the  languishing  eye, 

Or  the  soft-throbbing  breast  of  a  beautiful  girl. 

Make  the  heaven  of  loving,  0  Hafiz,  thine  own, 
For  thy  life  is  but  short,  and  worth  less  than 
the  least 

Of  the  handful  of  glittering  coins  which  are  thrown 
To  the  Georgian  maidens  who  dance  at  a  feast. 


POPLAR  DOWN. 

The  sylph  that  haunts  the  locust  trees 
Pours  out  her  fragrant  chalice, 

The  spruces  wave  their  stately  arma 
And  greet  us  to  their  palace. 

The  peonies  on  velvet  turf 

Dream  of  their  glad  to-morrow, 

The  hemlocks  gild  their  sprouting  tips 
Like  sunny  thoughts  in  sorrow. 

The  summer  breeze  has  crisped  the  sea 
With  fleeces  white  as  milk. 

It  waves  the  wheat  on  distant  hills 
Like  folds  of  watered  silk. 


VERSES.  105 

It  sway?  the  elm  tree's  lofty  crown 

Where  birds  are  full  in  tune; 
Like  magic  snow  the  poplar  down 

Floats  on  the  sky  of  June. 

On  blooming  grass  we  drink  our  fill 

Of  perfect  earth  and  skies, 
Till  sunbeams  lay  their  subtle  hand 

Upon  our  closing  eyes. 

The  heart  beats  soft ;  the  outer  world 

Recedes  and  disappears ; 
Only  the  rushing  of  God's  wind 

Is  in  our  dreaming  ears. 

The  solid  earth  beneath  us  melts, 

The  zephyrs  lend  their  motion, 
With  clouds  and  poplar  down  we  drift 

Across  the  heavenly  ocean. 


LAFAYETTE. 

In  eighteen  hundred  twenty-four, 
When  the  republic  still  was  young, 

The  Revolutionary  War 

Remained  the  theme  of  every  tongue. 

Near  Boston,  at  Jamaica  Plain, 

An  ancient  cobbler  swung  his  sign; 

He  still  remembered  George's  reign 
And  Washington  and  Brandywine. 


106  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

He  loved  his  grog,  but  loved  his  work; 

New  England  always  had  a  place 
For  men  who  did  not  care  to  shirk 

And  kept  a  steady,  cheerful  face. 

A  cricket,  somewhat  out  of  date, 

He  piped  and  chirruped  with  the  best 

And  stopped   at  every  open  gate — 
Good  nature's  kindly,  heedless  guest. 

Long  stockings  on  his  withered  shanks, 
A  twinkling  eye,  and  whiskers  stubby; 

The  boys  forgot  their  usual  pranks 
And  kept  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  Tubby. 

That  season,  as  the  nation's  guest, 
Great  Lafayette  came  o'er  the  waters, 

Finding  a  welcome  in  the  breast 

Of  all  Columbia's  sons  and  daughters. 

And  when  he  came  to  Boston  town 
Excitement  swept  the  quiet  city; 

Each  girl  brought  out  her  finest  gown, 
And  orators  were  brave  and  witty. 

Old  Tubby  followed  with  the  crowd 
That  came  to  see  the  great  parade, 

And  stood  there,  not  a  little  proud 
Of  stiff  chapeau  and  fine  cockade. 

When  the  cortege  came  sweeping  by, 

He  scarce  could  shout  or  speak  for  gladness ; 

For  pleasure,  in  an  aged  eye, 
Is  very  close  akin  to  sadness. 


VERSES.  107 

"Stop  here !"  the  general  cried,  "stop  here  I 
Here's  one  of  my  old  Continentals." 

And  soon  the  veteran  stood  near 
The  coach  in  battered  regimentals. 

"I  saw  your  honor,"  so  he  said, 

And  clear  the  withered  features  shine, 

(He's  taller  now  by  half  a  head), 
"I  saw  you  at  the  Brandywine." 

"They  tell  me,"  Lafayette  replied, 

"1  ne'er  forgot  a  friend  as  yet." 
And  the  old  man  broke  down  and  cried, 

To  be  the  friend  of  Lafayette ! 

The  marquis  placed  a  new  cockade 
Beside  the  old  one  on  his  breast; 

Again  the  martial  music  played — 
Forward  the  gay  procession  pressed. 

But  after  that  good   Tubby  Jones 

Had  freedom  of  Jamaica  Plain; 
He'd  wet  his  whistle,  rest  his  bones, 

And  fight  his  battles  o'er  again. 

Some  eyes  there  are  that  ne'er  are  blind, 
Some  hearts  there  are  that  ne'er  forget. 

A  blessing  on  all  souls  as  kind 
As  generous  General  Lafayette. 


108  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

ANTIGONE  AND  ISMENE. 

Ismene  of  the  even  mind, 

Delight  of  all  the  human  kind, 

With  gentle  sense  and  prudent  eye 

To  know  the   force  of  reason   high, 

To  mark  the  possible  and  wrest 

The  better  from  the  hopeless  best. 

The  counsellor  of  every  hour, 

The  doubler  of  a  mortal's  power, 

Possessing  all  the  wisdom  rare 

Of  when  to  slum  and  when  to  dare, 

Of  when  to  suffer  long  and  when 

To  justify  God's  ways  with  men. 

A  gentle  creature  wise  and  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

To  bow  before  the  Eternal's  might, 

And    span   the   abyss   with   rainbows   bright. 

Antigone,  who  strives  again 
Against  the  common  lot  of  men, 
Who  spurns  the  half  without  the  whole, 
And   struggles   with   a   desperate   soul 
For  truth  and  honor,  fair  and  bright, 
Prizing  the  right  because  of  right ; 
Scorning  the  wrong,  and  glad  to  break 
All  human  law  for  law's  dear  sake. 
Tremendous  risk,  terrific  power 
That  dares  to  trifle  with  the  hour, 
And  risk  the  fate  of  all  below 
Upon  a  single  desperate  throw. 
The  very  thought  of  self  is  death 
To  all  her  love ;  a  single  breath 
Of  wrong,  and  all  her  work  of  blisa 
Falls  ruined  back  in  the  abyss. 


VERSES.  109 

The  growth  of  ignorance,  foul  and  rank, 
Converts  the  martyr  to  a  crank, 
And  error  arms  her  eager  face 
Against  the  entire  human  race. 
A  single  fly  brings  foulest  blot 
And  all  her  ointment  is  forgot ; 
A  touch  from  superstition's  hands, 
And,  lo,  a  perfect  fiend  she  stands, 
With   block  for   martyr  heads,   and   smiles 
For  human  racks  and  blazing  piles. 
Oh,  rarest  gift  of  man,  the  power 
To  face  Peniel's  awful  hour, 
To  tread  the  path  that  Jacob  trod, 
Who  wrested  victory  from  his  God, 
And  came  to  meet  his  life  again, 
A  conqueror  with  God  and  men ; 
The  power  to  meet  a  tyrant's  motion, 
To  lead  a  nation  through  the  ocean, 
To  stand  with  hands  uplifted  high 
For  laws  of  justice  from  the  sky — 
With  self-control  that  fears  to  break 
Those  tables  for  their  Maker's  sake; 
That  rises  by  the  cliff,  to  give 
The  fount  that  makes  a  nation  live, 
Yet  instant  drops  the  lifted  rod, 
Still  mindful  of  the  word  of  God. 
None,  none  can  tread  the  awful  path, 
Can  win  the  blessing,  shun  the  wrath. 
Cry  of  the  lost,  shout  of  the  free, 

Antigone !  Antigone ! 
Strange  destiny  of  sons  of  men — 
To  live  before  their  God  again. 
As  did  their  ancestors,  and  rise 
Obedient  to  his  solemn  eyes ! 


110  VERSES. 

To  meet  with  free  and  steadfast  awe 
The  iron  fiat  of  his  law; 
To  float  in  the  abyss ;  to  stand 
A  moth  upon  a  giant's  hand! 
A  withered  leaf  upon  the  blast, 
A  mote  upon  the  whirlwind  cast, 
A  fleck  of  sunlight  on  the  stream, 
The  very  shadow  of  a  dream, 
The  image  of  a  Maker,  yet 
Corruption  which  the  worms  forget! 

Oh,  who  can  know  and  who  can  see? 

Antigone !    Antigone ! 

NOTE. — CEdipus,  in  Greek  mythology,  represents  the 
Sun,  child  of  Laius  (gleaming;  the  twilight)  and 
locasta  (bright  tcanderer;  the  moon).  Like  other  solar 
deities  he  is  exposed  as  a  child;  i.  e.,  he  disappears  in 
the  west,  and  appears,  another  yet  the  same,  in  the 
east.  His  swollen  foot  represents  the  distorted  disk  on 
the  horizon.  He  slays  his  father,  the  twilight,  and 
marries  his  mother,  now  the  old  moon,  in  the  east. 
When  the  truth  is  discovered.  locasta  hangs  herself,  as 
new  moon,  on  the  western  horizon ;  (Edipus  destroys  his 
own  sight  and  sets  in  blood.  His  daughters  are  Ismene 
(even  mind,  patience)  the  evening  star,  living  out  her 
appointed  period;  and  Antigone  (resistance),  the  morn 
ing  star,  which  struggles  against  the  light  and  perishes. 


FERNS. 

There's  a  power  in  nature  that  quickens  and  burns 
In  each  bud  and  each  blade  that  aspire ; 

There's  a  life  in  creation  which  rises  and  yearns 
For  the  sky  with  a  constant  desire. 


VERSES.  Ill 

The  chemical  forces  of  age?-  unknown 
Have  nurtured  the  root  in  the  earth, 

And  the  seeds  that  the  hand  of  a  zephyr  has  sown 
Respond  to  their  marvellous  birth. 

On  the  wing  of  the  moonlight  the  dewdrops  have 
flown 

Through  the  gulfs  and  abysses  of  dark, 
The  radiant  might  of  the  sun  on  his  throne 

Has  hastened  the  magical  spark. 

Of  all  the  bright  creatures  that  tremble  and  gleam, 
.  Of  all  the  sweet  visions  that  burn, 
There   is   nothing  more  tender  by   rock  and  by 

stream, 
Than  the  charm  of  the  exquisite  fern. 

With  Titian's  own  green,  with  its  fairylike  lace, 

With  circles  that  gently  unfold 
On  the  breath  of  the  spring  from  the  earth  at  its 
base, 

It  arises  in  emerald  and  gold. 

It  awoke  in  the  years  before  Adam  was  made 

Or  the  bliss  of  existence  begun, 
And  perished  by  millions  beneath  the  deep  shade 

Of  forests  that  knew  not  the  sun. 

It  raised  its  frail  frond  in  the  darkness  to  kiss 

The  lip  of  the  poisonous  air, 
And  heard  the  fierce  breath  of  the  dragons  that 
hiss 

In  the  gloom  of  a  horrid  despair. 


112  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

It  waited  for  ages  and  aeons  untold, 
For  the  pillars  of  heaven  to  arise, 

For  the  radiant  dome  from  on  high  to  unfold 
The  joy  of  the  crystalline  skies. 

In  all  God  has  made  there  is  nothing  that's  loss, 
Each  leaf  is  sustained  by  his  power, 

Creation  has  shared  in  the  weight  of  his  cross, 
And  looks  for  his  glorious  hour. 


QUEEKSTOWK 

The    tender    leaves    the    steamer's    side, 

One  white  hand  waves  afar ; 
The   poising  sea-gulls   swoop   and  glide, 

Upon  the  outward  bar. 

Here  many  part,  and  few  shall  meet, 

And  most  are  left  behind, 
While  eager  wishes,  keen  and  fleet, 

Float  on  the  following  wind. 

Where'er  the  Irish   lass  has  trod, 

Where'er  the  lad  has  gone. 
There's   still  the  heart  that  blessed   the  sod 

Where  Patrick  spared  the  fawn. 

Where'er  the  tide,  revolving,  swings, 

Where'er   the   islands   be, 
The  Irish  hearts  have  spread  their  wings 

To  fly  across  the  sea, 


VERSES.  113 


THE  HAUNTED  CASTLE. 

The  castle  stands  firm  on  the  beetling  crag 

Over  chasms  of  fathomless  night, 
The  whispering  folds  of  the  mystical  flag 

Appeal  to  the  stars  in  their  flight. 

It  raises  its  hands  to  the  heavens  on  high 

With  a  passion  no  mortal  can  tell, 
Like  a  spirit  that  fixes  its  thoughts  on  the  sky 

From  abysses  of  terror  and  hell. 

The   night-hawk   encircles  the   tower  above; 

Through  the  darkening  fir  trees  below 
The  moon  casts  a  glance  of  compassionate  love 

On  the  fate  of  the  waterfall's  flow. 

The  gathering  clouds  hide  the  beautiful  face, 
And  nature  is  holding  her  breath, 

The  chime  of  the  water  resounds  with  the  grace 
Of  a  requiem  constant  in  death. 

Strange  warders  above  on  the  ramparts  emerge, 

Closed  visor  and  glimmering  mail, 
All  silent  the  footsteps  that  tread  on  the  verge 

Of  sorrow  and  mystery  pale. 

Strange  torches  flash  out  in  the  banqueting  hall, 

Strange  choruses  echo  afar; 
There  are  shrieks  from  the  dungeons  and  groans 
that  appal 

The  heart  of  the  listening  star. 


114  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Every  window  is  filled  with  a  magical  flame, 

And  rings  with  a  magical  tread, 
The  lamps  of  the  towering  archways  enframe 

The  terrible  dance  of  the  dead. 

?,[nst  strange,  on  the  edge  of  eternity,  stands 

The  castled  abode  of  the  soul, 
Where    forms    of    remote    generations    and   lands 

Hold  the  spirit  in  instant  control. 

There  are  passions  now  still  in  the  dust  of  the  ages 

And  griefs  hidden  under  the  snow, 
There  are  transports  and  sorrows,  devotions  and 
rages, 

Long  passed  frojn  our  planet  below. 

The  ancestor's  smile  and  the  trick  of  his  hand, 

His  look  of  decision  or  pain, 
As  he'd  comfort  or  counsel,  persuade  or  command 

Are  seen  in  descendants  again. 

The  soul  of  a  saint,  of  a  heroine  gleams 

In  a  mother's  compassionate  e}re; 
In  her  husband  a  buried  philosopher  dreams 

Or  the  scoffs  of  a  cynic  reply. 

In  the  flash  of  that  brow,  in  the  nerve  of  those 
hands, 

Is  his  spirit  who  mastered  the  ship ; 
The  judge  with  his  ermine  in  majesty  stands 

In  the  .-ilent  control  of  that  lip. 

The  fires  of  courage  and  genius  arise 
In  the  banner  that's  streaming  above; 


VERSES.  115 

There  are  musings  of  heaven   and   hopes  of  the 

skies 
By  the  light  of  the  planet  of  love. 

There  is  terror  and  anguish  and  madness  and  sin 
In  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon  below, 

Where  hope,  became  horror  and  life  wasted  thin 
In  the  veins  of  the  long  vanished  foe. 

The  powers  of  midnight  and  evil  must  shock 

The  castle  above  and  beneath, 
And  well  for  the  soul  that  is  rooted  in  rock 

O'er  the  infinite  darkness  of  death. 


COLD  STORAGE. 

Outside  my  quiet  window  a  tower  surges  high 

And  bears  the  winter's  greeting  to  meet  the  sum 
mer  sky ; 

There  tons  of  frozen  storage  on  groaning  pillars 
rest, 

And  Hecla's  snows  sleep  quietly  within  the  mighty 
breast ; 

There  June  and  January  both  in  calmest  friend 
ship  meet 

And  Christmas  nods  its  hoar}'  head  above  the  Au 
gust  street. 

All  day  the  drays,  with  restless  teams,  keep  gath 
ering  about 

To  bear  icy  giant's  gifts  of  healing  bounty  out — 

The  fruits  and  sweet  refreshment  to  cool  the  fev 
ered  lips, 

The  stream  of  life  and  comfort  the  pining  baby 
sips; 


116  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

It  takes  much  stem  machinery,  and  human  thought 

beside, 

To  send  such  eddies  backward  on  Time's  unchang 
ing  tide; 
The  engines  thunder  far  below  before  the  dawn  has 

risen, 
As  if  a  long-doomed  Afritc  sought  to  break  his 

magic  prison. 
When   summer  cheers   my  upper  room   and   lifts 

the  window-frame, 
I  hear  a  stream  of  water  rush,  all  night,  the  very 

same, 

And  yet  with  fitful  cadences  and  moods  of  vary 
ing  trills, 
Like  streams   that  glide   upon   the   Alps   or   cool 

Norwegian  hills 
Or   where   Italian   naiads   gather   the   mountain's 

tears 
And  Byron's  bow  on  Terne  watches  the  flight  of 

years — 
Where   Anio  thunders   down   the  steep   of  Tivoli 

sublime, 
And   the    Sibyl's   temple   soars   serene   above   the 

wrecks  of  time. 

I  think  how  great  Maecenas  made  Tivoli  his  home 
And  its  music  granted  him  the  sleep  no  gold  could 

buy  in  Rome. 
I  see  the  vast  Campagna  spread,  the  Este  gardens 

rise, 

I  see  the  evening  glimmer  red  in  the  eternal  skies, 
Till    fancy    folds   her   wearied    wings,   my   senses 

cease  to  know, 
And  I  go  where  old  Maecenas  went  and  all  good 

sleepers  go, 


VERSES.  117 


0  FONS  BANDUSLE. 

How  delicious  the  fount  under  Bandusia's  cave! 
Bright  the  bubbles  that  mount  swift  through  the 
mantling  wave. 

Wine  is  rub},  but  thine  is 

Crystal,  perfect  to  bless  and  save. 

Gentle  nymph  of  the  spring,  queen  of  the  water 

free, 

Here  tomorrow   I'll  bring  sacrifice  due  to  thee. 
Flowers  fresh  from  the  bowers, 
Garlands  meet  for  thy  deity. 

Most  refreshing  the  pool  fed  by  the  currents  fair, 
Ilex  verdant  and  cool  sways  in  the  summer  air; 
Sleeping  after  their  reaping 

Workmen  gaze  on  a  goddess  there. 

Other  poets  may  chant  Dirce  and  Castaly, 
And   the  visions  that   haunt   under   their  sacred 
tree; 

Blessing  ever  confessing, 

Still  I  sing  of  thy  grace  to  me. 


THE  FIRE. 

Pile  the  mo??y   branches  high, 
Once  they  soared  to  meet  the  sky. 
Cradled  in  the  ether  fair, 
Darlings  of  the  light  and  air, 


118  VERSES. 

Drank  the  dews  of  heaven  clear, 
Sheltering  the  birds  and  deer. 
How  the  fire-spirit  clings, 
Laps  them  closely  in  his  rings; 
How  the  rosy  splendor  masses 
Crimson  light  upon  the  brasses; 
How  the  quaintest  faces  smile 
Tn  the  polished  oak  and  tile; 
I  low  the  shadows  rise  and  fall 
In  the  old  familiar  hall ! 
Earliest    dreams   that   one   remembers 
Still  are  lurking  in  the  embers, 
Blazing  castles,  ocean  waves, 
/Etna  craters,  Fingal's  caves — 
How  we  watched  the  blazing  log 
Cheek  by  jowl  beside  the  dog! 
Still  the  thronging  memories  come— 
Christmas  mornings,  welcomes  home, 
Sweetest  voices  ever  heard, 
Kindly  thought  and  gentle  word, 
Loving  hands  of  long  ago, 
Folded  now  beneath  the  snow. 
As  we  dream  we're  growing  older — 
Ah!  what  hand  is  on  your  shoulder? 
See,  a  welcome  form  is  there, 
Tripping  lightly  down  the  stair. 
Call  no  more  the  bygone  years, 
Fire,  who  knew  their  smiles  and  tears, 
Counsellor  of  midnight  hours, 
Oracle  of  spirit  powers, 
You  who  broke  our  dearest  fetters, 
Treasure  house  of  treasured  letters; 
Gone  they  are,  and  let  them  rest, 
Buried  in  your  ardent  breast. 


VERSES.  119 

Changeful,  eager,  restless  fire, 
Emblem  of  our  heart's  desire; 
How  it  bursts  in  ruddy  flashes 
Ere  it  sinks  to  dust  and  ashes, 
Blackening,  scorching,  searing,  thrilling, 
All  the  heart  with  anguish  filling, 
Keener  than  the  swiftest  fencer, 
Fragrant  as  a  golden  censer, 
When  the  fleecy  wreaths  arise 
Through  the  murk  to  seek  the  skies  ; 
Heart  consumer,  purifier, 
Solemn,  stern,  judicial  fire! 


THE  BATH. 

The  eager  oar  has  kissed  the  wave, 
The   answering  waters  quiver, 

With  scarce  a  touch  we  seem  to  glide 
Along  the  peaceful  river. 

The  fragrance  of  the  summer  rose 

Upon   the   surface  lies, 
The  trembling  tide  reflects  anew 

The  roses  of  the  skies. 

A  sound  of  many  waters  fills 
The  dawn's  refreshing  cool, 

And  guides  us  to  the  dear  delights 
That  haunt  the  crystal  pool. 

Delicious   poise,   delicious   plunge, 

Delicious  the  return 
To  where  the  azure  vaults  above, 

In  their  abysses  burn. 


120  VERSES. 

Thus  must  the  new-born  spirit  rise 

Upon  the  air  of  even, 
And,  cradled  in  the  ether,  view 

The  opening  gates  of  heaven. 

The  living   water  bears  us  on 

Its  hospitable  breast, 
It  soothes  each   thought   with   perfect  calm, 

Each  nerve  with  perfect  rest. 

The  pulse  of  nature's  conscious  power 

Is  in  the  wakening  breeze, 
It  crisps  the  wave  upon  our  lips 

And  sways  the  shadowing  trees. 

A  fount  of  music  from  the  birds 

Is    thrilling   in    the   branches, 
It  ripples  from  the  listening  leaves, 

And  from  the  summit  launches. 

They  feel  the  joy  of  life  divine 

And  strive  to  tell  the  story, 
And  all  the  air  around  repeats 

Its  majesty  of  glory. 

The  purple  pennants  of  the  east, 

In  clearer  light   are  furled, 
And  eyes  immortal  gaze  upon 

The  beauty  of  the  world. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  121 


THE  MUSIC  BOX. 

Where  sweet  Geneva's  eye  of  blue 

Keflects  the  blue  above  it, 
And  spreads  its  most  enchanting  view 

For  those  who  know  and  love  it, 

Where  the  horizon  glimmers  fair 

Above  the  range  of  Jura, 
And,  bathed  in  most  pellucid  air, 

Each  snowy  peak  shines  purer, 

Where  poplars  of  Jean  Jacques  Kousseau 

Upon  his   island   quiver, 
And  morning  rose  and  evening  glow 

Eest  on  the  rushing  river, 

A  workman,  wise  in  head  and  heart, 
Sweet  Music's  soul  divining, 

Ensnared  her  spirit  by  his  art, 
In  magic  case  enshrining. 

And  still,  afar  from  Leman's  shore, 

The  melodies  enchanting. 
In  notes  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

Our  thoughts  are  ever  haunting. 

A  touch  upon  the  pearly  box 

Opens  the  airy  prison, 
While  mother's  hand  the  cradle  rocks 

And  children  pause  to  listen. 


122  VERSES. 

Coronation  Waltz.    Strauss. 

Stern  the  castle's  ancient  splendor 
Rises  o'er  the  sweeping  Rhine, 

Silver  moonbeams,  soft  and  tender, 
On  the  deathless  towers  shine. 

"Pis  the  monarch's  coronation; 

Noblest  knights  and  ladies  all 
Bring  their  joyous  acclamation 

To  the  great  ancestral  hall. 

Hark!  the  sound  of  footsteps  dancing; 

Hark !  the  music  in  the  air, 
Waltzing  forms  are  brightly  glancing 

Through  the  stately  windows  fair. 

On  a  balcony,  my  dearest, 
Gazing  o'er  the  silver  Rhine, 

For  an  instant — oh,  the  merest 
Instant — raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 

The  cadence  falls 

Within  the  walls. 
The  moon  reigns  white  above, 

The  nightingale  in  darkness  calls 
To  greet  my  onlv  love. 


Polka  Hassenfelder. 

Hark !  the  polka  music,  ringing 

Through  the  branches  sweet  and  free; 

Hark !  the  merry  chorus,  singing 
Underneath  the  greenwood  tree. 


VERSES.  123 

Tell  me  not  of  midnight  hours, 

All  is  brightest  in  the  sun; 
Here,  in  nature's  fragrant  bowers, 

Life  and  hope  are  best  begun. 

Nothing  else  is  half  so  cheering 
In  this  world  of  clouds  and  storms 

As  the  clasp  of  hands  endearing 
And  the  sway  of  graceful  forms. 

Lips  are  reddest,  faces  brightest, 

Happy  boys  and  noble  girls, 
Voices  sweetest,  hands  the  whitest, 

As  the  merry  music  whirls; 

Gentle  fingers  softly  twining, 
Eyes  on  one  another  shining 
All  the  bliss  of  life  divining— 
Swift  the  merry  music  whirls. 


La  Violetta.    Mazurka.    Faust. 

Sweet  mazurka,  sweeter,  sweetest! 

Tell  me  not  the  dance  is  done; 
Fleet  the  hours,  fleeter,  fleetest ! 

Sure,  the  night  is  but  begun. 

Stars  are  calm  and  skies  are  tender, 
Nothing  on  the  earth  is  true 

But  my  darling,  graceful,  slender, 
With  her  steadfast  eyes  of  blue. 


124  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Tell  me  not  the  sun  is  risen, 
Tell  me  not  the  dawn  is  gay, 

All  without  is  gloom  and  prison, 
Here,  alone,  I  find  my  day. 

The  violet,  the  violet ! 
The  fragrance  I  can  ne'er  forget, 
For  nothing  else  on  earth  is  sweet 
But  Marguerite,  my  Marguerite. 
0  Marguerite,   0  Marguerite, 
The  name  I'll  evermore  repeat — 
If  I  could  die  at  thy  dear  feet, 
My  Marguerite,  my  Marguerite  I 


Allegro  di  Nabucliodonosor.     Verdi. 

See !  his  Majesty  Chaldasan 

Xearing  in  his  awful  state ; 
Hark !  the  mighty,  martial  pa?an 

Ringing  through  the  golden  gate. 

Gorgeous  satrap,  great  magician, 

Form  the  glory  of  his  train 
As  the  pageant,  like  a  vision, 

Flashes  through  the  jewelled  fane. 

Hark !  the  trumpets  loudly  pealing, 
Clashing  timbrels,  rolling  drums; 

Sweet  the  dulcimer  is  stealing 
As  the  lofty  monarch  comes. 


V  ERSES.  125 

Join  the  shout  the  people  raises! 

Thronging  crowds  of  every  station 
Share  the  rapture,  chant  his  praises 

With  the  Babylonian  nation. 

"Nebuchadnezzar !    Nebuchadnezzar ! 

Lord  of  our  glory,  our  feasts  and  our  pleasure !" 


Redowa  de  Sulliva. 

Hark !  the  redowa  is  sounding, 

Chiming  through  the  pillared  halls, 

Like  a  poising  billow  bounding, 
Then  in  silver  notes  it  calls. 

There  her  snowy  plume  is  glancing 
Underneath  the  chandelier; 

Cease,  ye  dancers !  cease  your  dancing 
Lo !  the  queen  of  souls  is  here. 

Stately  foot  and  graceful  measure, 
Stately  she,  but  never  proud; 

Sweetest  eyes,  with  look  of  pleasure, 
Gazing  on  the  parting  crowd. 

Sound  again !  ye  accents  tender, 
Sweet  as  Handel  and  Mozart ; 

See !  she  comes  in  all  her  splendor, 
She,  the  lady  of  my  heart. 


126  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 


Brindio  de  la  Zarzuela  Catalina. 

Soft  the  star  of  eve  is  shining 
O'er  the  blooming  orange  trees, 

All  the  mysteries  divining 

Of  the  fragrant  western  breeze. 

Cool  the  shadow  of  the  mountain 
Falls  upon  the  town  below, 

And  the  music  of  the  fountain 
Echoes  in  the  twilight  glow. 

Far  on  high  Alhambra's  bowers, 
Haunted  by  the  stately  past, 

Guard  the  joyful  myrtle  bowers 
While  the  singing  voices  last. 

Brightly  sounds  the  brindio,  flinging 

Gladness  on  the  air  afar; 
Gay  the  castanet  is  ringing, 

Sweetly  chimes  the  clear  guitar. 

Watch  the  dancers  lightly  wheeling! 

Softly  through  the  darkness  stealing, 
Louder,  then,  and  louder  pealing, 

Sweetly  chimes  the  clear  guitar. 


No  more,  no  more,  enchanting  box! 

Though  memory  fondly  lingers, 
Sad  evening  brings  the  koy,  and  locks 

The  past  with  thoughtful  fingers. 


VERSES.  127 

M.  M.  H. 

When  I  remember  all  thy  love  and  care, 

Dear  mother,  in  the  days  of  childhood,  spent 
At  thy  sweet  side — thy  smile  of  calm  content, 
Thy  perfect  voice,  thy  hand,  thy  wisdom  rare, 
Which  seemed  to  sphere  our  life  in  holy  air, 
As  if  a  blessed  spirit,  nightly  sent, 
Would  spread  the  shelter  of  his  guardian  tent 
For  pilgrim  feet  beneath  the  heavens  fair — 
And  when  I  know  that  all  is  past,  and  thou 

Safe  with  the  friends  beloved  in  other  years;— 
I  seem  to  see  thee,  light  upon  thy  brow, 
A  lip  without  a  sorrow,  and  the  tears 
Banished  forever  from  thy  gentle  eyes, 
Guiding  thy  long  lost  child  in  Paradise. 


E.  M.  0. 

Thy  soul  was  fairer  than  thy  lovely  face 

(Which  made  the  stranger  pause  upon  the  street 
As  if  some  minister  of  heaven  to  meet), 

Thy  radiant  eye,  thy  bright  unconscious  grace 

Which  breathed  in  ambient  airla  shrine,  a  space 
That  evil  could  not  enter,  and  the  sweet 
Look  of  compassion  on  thy  lip  to  greet 

The  world's  great  sorrow.  Short  thy  earthly  race; 

Happy  in  this,  beneath  the  fatal  dower 
Of  beauty  wisely  borne — one,  true  as  thou, 

Loved,  sought  and  won  then,  in  a  happy  hour, 
Completing  the  full  orb  of  life.    And  now 

They  dwell  where  grief  is  past  and  sight  begun — 

The  wife,  the  husband,  and  their  noble  son. 


128  VERSES. 

J.  M.  H. 

I  seem  to  see  him  as  he  was  in  youth, 
His  face  all  radiant,  and  his  noble  brow 
Fit  for  Apollo's  fairest  laurel  bough, 

A  look  of  candor  and  an  eye  of  truth. 

Tip  trusted  other  hearts,  for  his,  in  sooth, 
Knew  nought  but  high  resolve  and  holy  vow. 
His  only  joy  was  kindly  deeds,  and  how 

To  comfort  saddened  souls  by  gentle  ruth. 

A  knight  of  latter  days,  who  feared  his  God 
And  loved  his  neighbor.    Now,  in  fields  of  light, 

He  treads  the  paths  that  sainted  feet  have  trod; 
And  there  the  blessed  mother  meets  his  sight, 

Who,  with  a  patient  love  that  none  may  tell, 

Waited  her  son  where  choiring  angels  dwell. 


H.  B. 

His  presence  always  lingers  in  the  home 
He  loved  and  blest,  and  on  the  shady  street 
His  lofty  figure  often  seems  to  meet 

Us  walking.     Past  the  quiet  church  he'd  come 

From   a    kind   errand.     There  was  always  some 
Word  of  good  cheer  upon  his  lips  to  greet 
Those  he  encountered  on  the  way.     His  feet 

Were  welcome  still  in  every  house  and  room. 

A  noble  life;  a  very  king  of  men. 

With  wisdom  won  from  many  a  distant  shore ; 

A  soul  that  ever  lived  in  sight  of  heaven. 
No  praise  of  mortals  reached  him.    Evermore 

His  thought  arose  above  our  human  ken 

To  Him  to  whom  alone  his  soul  was  given. 


V  E  K  S  E  S  .  129 

ALL  SAINTS. 

The  glories  of  the  western  hill 

Through  wreathing  vapors  fall 
Beneath  the  eye,  serene  and  still, 

Of  one  who  watches  all. 

The  memory  of  summer  days 

Melts  in  the  ether  bright 
As  angel  music  softly  plays 

Through  gulfs  of  starry  night. 

Embers  of  autumn's  latest  red 

Through  baring  branches  glow, 
As,  one  by  one,  their  leaves  are  shed 

On  peaceful  turf  below. 

In  chrysoprase  and  amethyst 

The  rounded  summits  rise, 
Foundations,  gleaming  through  the  mist, 

Of  cities  in  the  skies. 

With  softer  breath  the  zephyr  faints, 

The  sapphire  river  rolls, 
And  heaven  bows  with  all  its  saints 

To  greet  our  mortal  souls. 


SHESHEQUIN. 

When  Yankee  hearts  in  other  days 
A  Western  home  were  seeking, 

They  found  a  shelter  in  the  glade 
Of  pastoral  Sheshequin. 


130  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Uniting  rivers,  then  as  now, 
Flowed  by  the  verdant  shore, 

Where  morning  dews  and  evening  glows 
Their  fruitful  influence  pour. 

Among  the  blackened  stumps  the  grain 
The  virgin  fields  was  blessing, 

And  Ulster  mountain  raised  its  hands 
To  grant  a  sunset  blessing. 

The  Indian  tempest  filled  the  north, 
War  thundered  from  the  east; 

A  frugal  table  theirs  indeed, 

Where  Freedom  spread  her  feast. 

But  eyes  there  were  to  see  aright 

And  hands  to  fire  true; 
From  field  and  hill  frontiersmen  came 

Beside  the  waters  blue. 

The  deerskin  made  the  hunting  shirt, 
The  women  knit  the  stocking, 

And  all  along  the  country  side 
The  stalwart  forms  were  flocking. 

Rough  were  the  trappings  at  the  best, 

But  manhood  did  its  part; 
They  bore  their  fortune  on  their  back, 

Their  country  in  their  heart. 

Distant  and  weary  was  the  march 
Past  rock  and  wood  and  gorge, 

To  face  the  field  of  Brahdywine, 
The  snows  of  Valley  Forge. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  131 

When  Peace  and  Liberty  prevailed 

Nor  bade  them  longer  roam, 
A  sober  welcome  'twas,  they  found 

In  every  cabin  home. 

No  laurel  for  the  weathered  brow, 

No  luxury  to  spoil; 
Nature  renewed  her  fruitful  years 

And  spread  her  bounteous  soil. 

They  left  a  lesson  for  a  world 

That  wealth  and  comfort  brighten, 

When  hope  and  culture  through  the  land 
Each  village  household  lighten. 

Their  spectral  watchfires  light  the  wave 

Upon  the  rivers  clear, 
And  by  them  stands  the  ghostly  form — • 

The  stately  Pioneer. 

The  Eevolution  greets  our  age 

As  mothers  greet  their  daughter, 
While  Ulster  nods  her  forest  crest 

Across  the  silent  water. 


SUNT  LACBtTOS  RERUM. 

The  power  of  years  eternal, 
Had  framed  the  granite  rock; 

The  force  of  fires  infernal 

Had  rent  it  with  their  shock; 


133  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

The  surges  of  the  ages 

Had  ground  it  into  sand, 
Where  azure  Ocean  rages 
To  kiss  the  blooming  land. 

The  Tyrian  trader's  fire 

Melted  the  stony  heart, 
As  drops  of  red  desire 

From  tortured  spirits  start; 

And  when  the  glowing,  quivering  vase 
Was  cooled  to  diamond  glass 

'Twas  glorious  as  when  heaven's  rays 
Through  sacred  fountains  pass. 

They  laid  a  lordly  Roman 

To  his  eternal  sleep, 
Where  ghosts  of  conquered  foemen 

Eternal  vigil  keep; 

They  filled  the  crystal  treasure 

With  orient  spices  dear, 
And  in  the  balm  of  pleasure 

Melted  a  human  tear. 

The  marble  chamber  guarded 

Its  secret  long  and  well, 
The  spectral  watchmen  warded 

The  deep  mysterious  cell; 

And  when  at  last  the  vase  of  tears 
Greeted  the  answering  light, 

Both  balm  and  tears,  in  lapse  of  years, 
Were  lost  in  dust  of  night; 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  133 


But  radiant  as  a  priestly  cope, 
Clear  as  a  living  soul, 

A  rainbow  of  immortal  hope 
Embraced  the  glowing  bowl. 


WEBSTER. 

One  morning,  at  the  Capitol 

Of  Washington,  the  wise  and  great 

Had  come  in  crowds,  to  follow  all 
The  progress  of  the  long  debate. 

The  forces  of  the  Xorth  and  South 
Were  gathered  for  the  altercation, 

And  tragic  Webster's  was  the  mouth 
To  speak  the  watchword  of  the  nation. 

The  lives  of  unborn  millions  stand 
Waiting  the  end  of  the  contention, 

And  Fate  holds  in  her  iron  hand 
The  balances  of  the  convention. 

Upon  his  lip  persuasion  lies — 

Great  legist,  orator,  logician; 
With  wing  of  eloquence  he  flic? 

To  seek  the  Pisgah  mount  of  vision. 

Like  summer  tempests  on  his  brow 

Gather  the  thoughts;  then,  flashing  under 

The  clouds  the  lightning  comes ;  and  now 
Follows  the  speech  of  pealing  thunder. 


134  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

The  session  ended  all  too  soon 

For  those  who  watched  that  might}7  frown, 
And  in  the  quiet  afternoon 

The  crowd  went  streaming  through  the  town. 

Returning  from  the  lofty  dome, 

Some  friends,  as  soon  as  they  were  able, 

Sought  out  their  prophet's  quiet  home 
To  gather  round  his  cheerful  table. 

Webster  came  down  a  little  late; 

A  lady,  filled  with  the  occasion, 
Eager,  and  quite  unused  to  wait, 

Began  at  once  congratulation. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Webster,  if  the  world 
Could  only  all  be  gathered  here, 

To  see  your  banners  quite  unfurled 
In  the  defence  of  Union  dear! 

"And  then  (you  really  mustn't  smile!) 
But  when  in  noble  blue  you  stand 

And  buttons !  the  old-fashioned  style — 
You  always  look  supremely  grand." 

His  face  was  calm — no  humor  now, 
No  touch  of  fun  to  greet  her  fact  or 

Fancy ;  beneath  the  royal  brow 

There  always  lurked  the  perfect  actor. 

The  solemn  lips  are  pursed,  serene, 
Above  the  eyes  the  eyelids  fall 

Demure,  as  any  sweet  sixteen 
Appearing  at  an  evening  ball. 


VERSES.  135 

He  simpered  for  a  moment — then, 
As  if  a  maiden's  fault  confessing: 

"I  thought  that  I  looked  pretty,  when 
(I  beg  your  pardon  !)    I  was  dressing." 


TREASURE  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Powers  of  darkness,  in  the  night, 

Swept  the  world  with  blasts  of  sleet; 

Peace  returns  with  morning  light, 
Solar  splendor  floods  the  street. 

Writhing  in  the  storm's  alarms 
Every  elm  tree  reared  on  high 

Wringing  hands  and  tortured  arms, 
Vainly,  to  the  blackened  sky. 

Now  a  glorious  arcade, 

Passing  work  of  mortal  hands, 

Perfect  light  without  a  shade, 
In  the  azure  ether  stands. 

Polished  porphyry  pillars  rise, 

Crystal  arches  nobly  bend, 
Diamond  fretworks  on  the  skies 

In  ecstatic  beauty  blend. 

Scarce  a  rustle  «tirs  the  air, 

Every  voice  of  man  is  still, 
Silver  timbrels,  tinkling  fair, 

Through  the  thoughtful  silence  thrill. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Thus  may  mortal  spirits  borrow 
Blessing  from  the  powers  of  Night 

Days  of  grief  and  years  of  sorrow 
Deck  the  soul  in  robes  of  light. 


TSAESKOE  SELO. 

Against  the  sapphire  sky  the  dome 

Of  gold  is  flashing  clear — 
A  dream  of  the  distant  spirit  home, 

Where  there's  never  a  sigh  or  tear. 

The  halls  are  rich  with  their  stones  of  price 

Where  the  palace  surges  fair, 
But  there's  naught  so  sweet  as  the  perfect  spice 

Where  the  lime-grove  woos  the  air; 

Where  the  leaves  are  damp  with  the  Baltic  dew, 
And  the  sun-flecked  shadows  brood, 

And  the  northern  springtime  is  always  new 
In  the  breath  of  the  August  wood. 

Is  that  the  sound  of  the  trees  I  hear, 

Or  the  voice  of  a  distant  crowd, 
While  the  note  of  the  linnet,  strong  and  clear, 

Eings  out  from  its  nest  aloud? 

It's  the  voice  of  millions  far  away, 
Who  dream  of  the  souls  they  love; 

It's  the  Power  that  guides  them  on  their  way, 
And  sounds  from  the  clouds  above. 


V  E  E  S  E  S  .  137 

There's  joy  on  the  bounds  of  the  farthest  hills, 
There's  joy  where  the  swallows  rove, 

When  the  sweetest  voice  of  summer  thrills 
In  the  heart  of  the  lime-tree  grove. 


BREEZE  AND  CALM. 

The  breeze  arose  at  set  of  sun, 
With  many  a  quirk  and  shiver, 

And,  with  a  burst  of  youthful  fun, 
Came  speeding  up  the  river. 

Each  ripple  in  its  portion  danced, 
Each  wavelet  met  its  brother, 

As  if  their  mutual  joy  enhanced 
The  bliss  of  one  another. 

The  moon  appearing  on  the  hills, 
Its  cheerful  message  speeding, 

Touched  the  bright  water  where  it  thrills 
With  countless  diamond  beading. 

In  every  dimple's  gleaming  ray 

The  orb  beheld  a  daughter, 
Until  a  perfect  milky-way 

Of  moons  was  on  the  water. 

A  path  it  seemed  of  silver  light, 

Too  fair  for  grief  or  sorrow, 
As  if  to  lead  me  through  the  night 

To  seek  a  glad  to-morrow. 


138  V  E  E  S  E  S  . 

Another  evening,  on  the  bridge, 

A  solemn  silence  bound  me, 
And,  when  the  moon  had  climbed  the  ridge, 

An  icy  spell  was  round  me. 

She  paused  at  heaven's  open  gate, 
And,  gazing  through  the  portals, 

Beheld  a  pool  as  smooth  as  fate, 
As  black  as  grief  of  mortals. 

There  lay  the  mirrored  orb  of  white, 
While  Nature  held  her  breath, 

As  if  there  gleamed  a  crown  of  light 
Beneath  the  stream  of  death. 

Without  a  stain,  without  a  sigh, 

She  met  my  anxious  face, 
As  if  to  teach  a  human  eye 

The  might  of  heavenly  grace. 


When  life  is  strong  and  hearts  are  gay 
With  Nature's  blessed  power, 

We  find  a  hope  for  every  day, 
A  joy  for  every  hour. 

In  every  face  we  view  a  friend, 

In  every  eye  an  answer, — 
Like  pulsing  melodies  that  send 

Their  challenge  to  the  dancer. 

When  hours  are  dark  and  hopes  are  few, 
The  stars  their  wisdom  lend  us 


VERSES.  139 

To  prize  a  single  heart  that's  true/— 
One  hand  that  can  befriend  us. 

Accustomed  to  the  night,  our  eyes 

Behold  a  comfort-giver, 
And  recognize  the  crown  that  lies 

Beneath  the  silent  river. 


ISAAC  MARSHALL. 

Slow,  slow,  long  ago, 
Clicked  the  clock-work  to  and  fro, 
With  the  tlmim,  and  the  hum, 
Of  the  solemn  pendulum, 
Where  the  rounded,  glittering  face 
Watched  above  the  polished  case, 
Marking  time's  appointed  pace. 
Straight  and  square,  tall  and  spare, 
Like  a  rock  by  the  clock, 
Firm  of  lip  and  white  of  hair, 
Isaac  Marshall  stood  in  prayer- 
Revolutionary  sire. 
At  his  side  his  bean's  desire 
Kerchiefed  wife  and  children  four, 
Humbly  kneeling  on  the  floor, 
Heard  the  father's  lips  implore 
Blessings  on  them,  o'er  and  o'er— 
Blessings  for  the  household  store, 
Blessings   from   the   heavenly   shore, 
More  and  more. 
"And  the  State,  firm  and  great, 
Where  the  sons  of  Pilgrims  wait— 


140  V  E  R  S  E  S  . 

Massachusetts:    I'c.-u-e  and  honor. 


Strength  and  wisdom  wait  upon  her:" 

So  he  speaks,  soft  and  low; 

Then  the  children  rise  and  go; 

Rise  to  face  their  daily  labor; 

Fear  their  God  and  love  their  neighbor. 

There,  there,  up  the  stair, 

In  the  summer  morning  air, 

Lay  the  figure  tall  and  spare, 

With  the  busy  fingers  prised 

On  the  Invest. 

Whispering,  they  thought,  it  best 

Thus  to  wait  and  let  him  rest. 

Slowly  ebb  the  powers  through  the  hours, 

Till  the  solemn  evening  lowers. 

And  they  said,  by  the  bed. 

"Is  he  living  still,  or  dead  ?" 

So  they  touch  the  withered  hand, 

Reverently,  at  love's  command, 

And  the  veteran  raised  his  eyes, 

In  surprise. 

"I  was  thinking  —  thinking  on, 

Of  the  day  of  Lexington  :  — 

Farmer,  deacon,  parson,  squire  — 

There  they  learned  to  load  and  fire. 

Those  were  clays  of  toils  and  pains- 

Old  Long  Island  and  White  Plains. 

Long  ago,  long  ago  — 

I  remember  Rochambeau. 

I  was  thinking,  children,  too, 

Thinking  of  your  God  and  you. 

As  I  ponder  I  can  see 

Faces  of  posterity  — 


VERSES.  141 

Children  yours,  and  children  theirs, 

Children  of  my  fears  and  prayers. 

So  I  pray  and  leave  the  rest. 

He  knows  best. 

He  will  see.     He  will  be 

With  them  as  with  yon  and  me." 

So  he  spoke,  and  closed  his  eye; 

Sober  man,  prepared  to  die. 

Slow,  slow,  long  ago, 
Clicked  the  clock-work  to  and  fro, 
With  the  hum  and  the  thrum 
Of  the  solemn  pendulum. 


ABNER  CRAFTS. 

In  worn  and  battered  uniform, 

As  gaunt  as  any  ogre, 
He  marched  along  in  sun  and  storm 

Fiom   far  Ticonderoga. 

Good  Abner  Crafts,  with  eagle  eye 
And  sinewy  figure  lanky, 

Had  left  his  home,  to  live  and  die 
With  many  another  Yankee. 

He  put  a  mortgage  on  his  place 
And  donned  his  regimentals 

To  raise  a  company  and  face 
War  with  the  Continentals. 


142  VERSES. 

And  now,  on  furlough  from  the  camp, 

With  compass  to  discover 
The  way,  he  started  on  the  tramp— 

Three  hundred  miles  and  over. 

No  mail  or  message,  in  those  years, 
To  bring  him  welcome  tiding; 

For  months  he'd  battle  with  his  fears 
How  all  at  home  were  'biding. 

And,  as  along  the  way  he  jogs, 

He'd  feel  a  kindly  nuzzle 
Of  comfort  from  his  yellow  dog's 

Mute  but  expressive  muzzle. 

"Rover'  had  kept  his  master  warm, 
And  felt  the  pinch  of  stint  or 

Starvation  through  each  night  of  storm 
In  that  Canadian  winter. 

And  now  they've  almost  reached  the  goal; 

Another  clay  will  bring  them 
To  Watertown,  whore  every  soul 

With  loving  arms  will  ring  them, 

When,  all  at  once,  the  dog  was  gone, 
And  Crafts  was  broken-hearted — 

He  had  not  felt  so  much  alone 
Since  first  from  home  he  started. 

The  waving  tail,  the  eriorer  bark, 
The  eyes  of  brown  affection, 

The  sense  that  led  him  in  the  dark 
And  found  the  lost  direction. 


VERSES.  143 

And  that  was  what  had  ailed  the  beast; 

He  felt  the  force  of  homing — 
The  power  that  moves  the  very  least 

Of  birds,  and  sets  them  roaming. 

And  so  across  the  hills  he  sped, 

As  sure  as  hawks  in  Norway, 
Until  he  struck  the  path  that  led 

Straight  to  his  master's  doorway. 

The  wife  and  children  round  him  fall, 

Some  mystery  divining, 
While  "Rover"  tries  to  tell  them  all 

With  sympathetic  whining. 

"Children,"  she  said,  "your  father  sure 

Will  be  at  home  to-morrow, 
Or  God  has  called  us  to  endure 

The  bitterest  of  sorrow." 

And  when  the  morning  came,  and  she 
In  warm  embraces   wrapped  him, 

All  Watertown  had  come  to  see 
And  welcome  home  their  Captain. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49  (65573)444 


PS 

1939 
H576v 


